


Little Sparrow

by Silent_Quicksilver



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Character Death, During Canon, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, F/M, FanFiction.Net, Fights, Gondor, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Original Character(s), Rohan (Tolkien), Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:46:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 92,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28152579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silent_Quicksilver/pseuds/Silent_Quicksilver
Summary: When he first laid eyes on her, she was digging graves for the dead; she had arrived too late. When she first laid eyes on him, he climbed the hill as pillars of smoke trailed into the darkened air behind him; he had arrived too late. There they both stood, and there, in the deepening dusk and in the settling night, two heavy and sorrowful hearts met. It was all too late. Before them only the great abyss stretched unending.Shadows fall and darkness stretches over Middle-Earth, its reach growing longer still. The Free People face enemies not only in the open; hidden and secret, the great Enemy knows well to break their spirit, their will to fight, long before his armies come forward. The walls of Minas Tirith stand tall, strong, yet the strength of Men wanes. Trouble brews over the plains of Rohan, and the horse-masters remain ever vigilant in their watch. In the North, the Dunedain Rangers fight a war unseen by most; protecting lands that find themselves at an uncertain peace. But for how long?The Enemy is soon ready.
Relationships: Éomer Éadig/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	1. The Sword of her Father

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted on FF.net and now my first story on AO3 after a suggestion from a reader (this also means that another 11 chapters can be read there, if anyone is interested in reading ahead. It takes me a while to post all my already-posted chapters to this platform since I can't for the love of me figure out this new system!).  
> Tagging makes absolutely no sense to me, send help!

**September, The Third Age, 3010 **

Heavy rain pounded against the windows.

An ever present pitter-patter that drowned out the rest of the world.

It was a constant drum, filling the quiet room where only the fire crackled and the dry logs popped in the heat; soft murmurs laced with concern were passed in the dim light around the bed as three figures crouched together over a fourth, the last laying still and unmoving. Puddles of water gathered around them, pooled on the wooden floor and mixed with both mud and blood. Bathed in warmth, golden and gentle, the chill in her body was not from the cold but an all too familiar sense of trepidation. She stood away to the side, hidden and forgotten, away from the light. In the shadows. Her back pressed hard against the wall.

Tears trickled down her chilled cheeks, falling onto her already soaked clothes. When the riders had arrived, shouting for aid, she had spared little thought on the heavy downpour outside and followed the others out. Grey eyes had sought out hers then, amidst a great many people hurrying forward to attend to the injured and the horses, and she had pulled herself through the mud into the house after the men. Following the limp form they pulled in with them.

Snippets and fragmented sentences were all she could glean from the uninjured Rangers, bringing in reports – orcs crossing the Bruinen, more than their scouts had first spoken of. An ambush. Arrows singing through the air, and little more than a panicked retreat had saved the company's lives as they fled into the woods for cover. Their horses knew the way, sure-footed between boles and strangled roots over the darkened forest floor, lid only by the faint light of a crescent moon, and they had managed to outmanoeuver their attackers.

But several of their men had suffered injuries.

She swallowed, mouth as dry as parchment, and she clenched her fingers into fists. Her father had been one of them; she had seen the dark-feathered shafts protruding from his back as they lifted him off the horse. Now dark patches ran along the floor, from the door to the bed, glinting crimson in the light of the fire. First only a few droplets, but quickly they then grew in both numbers and size. He was bleeding out fast. There was no better healer in the entire village than the one present, but even still fear pressed down on her, suffocating, until her breathing was but shallow rasps for air.

Where had the arrows pierced?

_How deep?_

The white linens became soaked in blood; a bowl of water turned muddy, a swirl of brown and red. Groans of pain erupted. The first arrow was pulled out, tearing muscle and flesh, and another wave of blood oozed from the wound. Pressing her eyes tightly shut, hands on her ears to drown out the horrid sounds, she prayed repeatedly in her mind with desperation. Over and over. _Please hear my prayer,_ she called, o great Estë. _Please help my father. Do not take him from me. I beg of you ..._

A shout tore through her thoughts, piercingly sharp.

_Spare him._

Her eyes snapped open and she felt faint; head heavy as a hollowness seeped from her heart into the rest of her body. Spreading through her chest, running along every nerve to the very tips of her fingers. Her hands fell heavy down her sides. Where there had previously been soft moans of pain and struggled breathing, now there was nothing. Everything was quiet. All too quiet.

She looked toward the bed.

The last arrow had been pulled, discarded on the floor, and the men now struggled to still the bleeding.  
The world felt grey, as if a great cover had been pulled over her; smothering all her senses into nothingness. Her sight, her hearing. Only the hammering of her heart resounded in her head. It was not the first time; she had been here before, standing as she did now. Watched as they tried to save her mother, crying out in childbirth – not for herself, but with pleas and prayers to protect the life in her stomach. But the Valar had not listened.

The grasping hands had fallen limp, the words turned feeble until they, too, stilled into silence. She had lost a parent then, and only a few days later her infant brother, frail and born too soon, left for the Halls of Mandos. To be reunited with their beautiful mother waiting for him there.

Was she now to lose another dear to her?

Was her mother waiting once more?

_Please, Estë, no._

A soft voice, weakened until it was barely a whisper weak against the din of the downpour, called to her. "My little heart ..." She knew that voice; the first she heard when she woke in the morning, and the last she heard before falling asleep. The one that chased away her fears; taught her how to ride a horse, and told her stories by the fire. Scolded her when she did wrong, and praised her when she did right. Roughly she rubbed her eyes, wiping away the tears, and sniffled. He could not see her cry – she would not let him worry, even though she wanted nothing more than to scream until breaking. Until she felt hollow. "Come ... so that I can see you."

Her eyes flickered to the door. She suppressed the urge to flee.

The adults stepped aside, making enough room for her to move closer. His face was pale, almost white despite the light, and clotted blood ran down his cheek. But she knew him; she recognized him in spite of everything, and she always would. Swearing then, to any greater being that would listen, she would always remember her father as he once was. _Not like this,_ she thought.

Her fingers gripped his much larger hand, squeezing tightly to let him know she was there by his side, for the grey eyes saw naught. They stared ahead, clouded and veiled as if another world was already calling. He did not see her. Did he see her mother? "I am here, father," she croaked, voicing breaking as she willed away her tears. She stroked his hand, tracing every line and scar, so familiar in her own. She would be strong.

A weight was laid carefully on her shoulder, a reassuring presence to support her, and she glanced back onto her uncle. His eyes held compassion; sadness and grief; but also strength enough to help her through this waking nightmare. She held his gaze. Teeth dug into her lower lip and a taste of iron filled her mouth. Swallowing, breathing deeply, she steadied her voice.

"Right here with you," she said.

His hand grasped hers, tighter, a thumb running slowly across her skin. "My sword?" He rasped.

One of the others stepped to the table nearby and fetched a long sheathed blade. It was laid upon her father's chest. Too weak to lift his hand, they helped him clasp the hilt, fingers white as they locked around the metal bound in leather strips. He grasped his sword for the last time. At his neck a silver pendant, shaped like a six-pointed star, was fastened. Gleaming.

It should have been her brother kneeling here, on the cold and hard floor, and not her. And certainly not so soon – far too soon.

"You need not take it," he wheezed, the air now barely filling his lungs. Blood was sleeping in, something was punctured, somewhere, and it took his remaining strength to stay conscious. The dead were calling, she knew that well enough.

She shook her head, then remembered he could not see her. "Of course I will," she said instead, attempting to smile. "I am ready."

Whether it was a cough or a laugh she could not tell, but they both knew the lie she had spoken with honest intentions. She gently pulled one hand free, already then missing his touch, and placed it on his over the hilt. "May the Valar–" He paused, attempting to calm his ragged breathing. He coughed violently; blood trickled down the corner of his mouth. Her sleeves were soaked in crimson as she wiped it away. "–bless and protect you. May your uncle guide you where I cannot."

Tears now ran freely down her face, and sobs pressed against her clenched teeth, but she kept her lips sealed so that no sound could escape. _Be strong, be strong, be strong ..._ Her hand on the sword trembled. Be strong. In those last moments, that felt both agonisingly slow yet so soon gone, it seemed as if the world had frozen; with baited breath she waited, dreaded what was happening. But it was inevitable.

"Rell," he spoke her name. For the last time. "Be safe."

His chest rose no more.

The light left his eyes, turning blank and dull, empty, and the fingers slackened their grip on hers.

She lowered her head. At the age of twelve she took her father's sword as her own, and with it his duties as a Ranger of the North fell upon her shoulders. A Dúnedain sworn to protect the lands from evil; she gently, carefully, loosened the hilt and drew the sword to her. It is heavy, her mind noted dully. Watchers from the Grey Company, now she too would wear the silver star. So very heavy. Clutching the sword to her chest, she looked up onto her uncle. "Will you avenge him?" Despite it all and as a surprise even to her, her voice was even. There was no rage, no sorrow. Acceptance; many before him had fallen in battle, died in the line of duty to protect the hard-fought peace. He would not be the last. Many would fall still.

She knew what it was like to lose someone, for she had seen it time and time again. For a Ranger to never return, and a family to wait yet never see them again. To take a blow, but still be able to get up and to keep going. To carry on living, regardless of the heartache and the loss that would never truly leave. She, too, would get up again. "Will you see to it that the orcs will not live to witness another sunset?"

His dark hair fell into his eyes as he bowed his head.

"Scouts are tracking their trails and reporting back as we speak," he said, "–we have not left them out of sight." With care he pulled a cover over the body, hiding her father from view; then he eased her onto her legs, put a hand over hers on the hilt, and grey eyes pierced her own searchingly. A silver ring rested on his finger, gleaming in the warm glow of the fire, and the two snakes, twisted and intertwined, became almost alive. It held her gaze, unfocused and shaken in her grief, until she calmed her breathing. The Ring of Barahir.

Her only remaining kin now stood before her, promising to bring death upon the orcs.

"I will ride out with the men at dawn."

With that promise she allowed the hollow chill to fill her, sealing the grief from escaping any more than it already had. It would be unbearable. She lowered her gaze, nodding. "Thank you, uncle." She breathed, exhaling slowly through her nose. Silently she made a vow, a vow only she would ever hear. But in the years to come she would cling to it, remind herself over and over of this promise, when she was faced with hardships and the weight of the world bore down upon her.

_I will be strong._

* * *

When morning dawned, a light grey piercing the darkness through a heavy cover of clouds, she had yet to leave her father's side. White fingers were drawn tightly over the hilt of the sword, resting heavily in her lap as she crouched on the cold floor. Drenched from the downpour, her clothes had turned damp and clammy, and sometime during the night someone, likely her uncle, had draped a blanket around her. Her eyes were dry, itching, and her face swollen from tears. But she could spill no more.  
A chill had overtaken her, and her heart was heavy.

Several of the men, that had brought her father home, proposed to take the vigil to show their final respect, but she had declined. She was grateful for their kindness and compassion, but it was her duty to keep the flames alive and hold the long, sleepless, and devoted watch throughout the night. Not once had she strayed from his side nor dozed off, despite heavy eyelids and a pounding in her head – and in her heart.

But she did not feel the physical struggles of her body, for a numbness dulled her mind.

She could hear the village rousing with the sun's climb across the horizon, and soon a large company of Rangers would depart. Shouts and orders were passed around, horses neighed and stamped as they were prepared for battle; scouts had reported back in the long hours before dawn, having trailed the band of orcs across the plains near the Trollshaws. The light of morning slowed them down, for evil creatures feared it more than anything else, and so now it was the Rangers' hour.

A thrum of vindictive anticipation hung thickly in the air.

Her father was not the only one claimed by death that night; one had been returned only so that his family could light the funeral pyre, and another had succumbed to his injuries early after their return. A third still struggled between life and death, and the healers feared he would not wake again from the fever. And if he did, he would never walk again. No orc would ever step foot on the other bank of Mitheithel, nor ever enter eastern Eriador.

They would be met with a rain of arrows, and only death would welcome them.

The stream would run steadily, carrying the filth and dark blood away with its waters; the corpses would be piled and burned, and the pillar of smoke would be seen for many miles in the distance. A warning clear to all that saw it. Vengeance would follow swiftly. It was a thought that brought some comfort to her mind when she finally rose from the floor.

Her limbs were stiff, frozen and asleep from the long lack of movement, and she braced her body against the bedpost. The sword hung down her side, scraping over the wooden floor boards, much too heavy for her. Streams of light filtered through the shut windows, finding a way in to the darkened room. She went to the door, pushed it open, and shielded her gaze from the sudden brightness.

Pools of water dotted the ground, and boots sank into the deep mud with squelches; a group of riders was already mounted, their grey cloaks drawn. They nearly became one with the misty dawn, ghostly pale figures. Their horses were sturdy creatures, bred for swiftness in difficult terrain and to move without being seen, but not without strength.

The Rangers were armed with spears and bows; swords hung about their waists, but none wore much armour. It was not a clash between two opposing forces in open battle, but an ambush carried out in swiftness. It would all be over long before the orcs would have much chance to retaliate. There was no need for honour against such an enemy.

It would be a slaughter.

Some looked to her when she emerged, lowering their hooded heads in solemn greeting. She glanced about in an attempt to find her uncle. Only when the last riders joined the company, did he arrive amongst them; pulling his horse by the reins he walked to her side and crouched down, making them see eye to eye. He had always been tall. Taller than anyone else she knew, but in that moment he appeared small; burdened with not only grief but also a duty he had hoped never to fulfil. For it to never fall to him. A gale wind swept down from the east, cool and fresh, and pulled at her clothes; tangles of hair brushed her cheeks, and he tugged them away behind her ear.

The riders were waiting, silent grey shapes swaddled in mist, ready to depart.

"My sister's daughter," he said, words weighed with great care, "I would never have wished for this to happen. Your father was a great warrior – a great man, and he shall be missed dearly by all. Know that I will do my utmost best to raise you in his place, though I know not how. I pray that you will have patience in me, for all my shortcomings that he would not have had. I shall teach you, and I will learn in return."

She nodded and smiled faintly. How tired she was. "Teach me what you do know, teach me all your wisdom. Let me be a Ranger he could be proud of." Placing her hand on his, so warm against her coldness, and staring into the deep grey eyes, she vowed to follow her chieftain wherever he would lead. She did not wish for a new father, for she only ever had one, but her uncle could help her become something else. So much more. "I will ask of nothing else."

His smile was one of sadness, though she then knew not why, but then he came to his full height. The hood masked his features.

"So it shall be."

With his cloak spread out around him he mounted swiftly, and the riders followed close behind as he left the village square. Mud and dust whirled up after them. It was not long before they vanished into the mists, and soon the trampling hoofs stilled to nothing. Women and children watched a while longer, a silence heavy in the air, but they soon returned to duties of their own; funerals were to be prepared, the dead to be washed and cleaned, the injured to be taken care of.

And life had to carry on.

Only a few men remained, to keep guard of the village, and soon they hauled wood over to the nearby field. There, on the green hill in the distance, pyres would burn and in silence they would say their last farewells. They would mourn and remember the fallen; tell tales and share memories. With honour they had died in battle, defending a world that thought itself at peace. How long she stood there, watching the pyres take shape, she knew not; only when one of the elderly women came to her, wrapping arms around her in a tender embrace, did she stir from deep thoughts.

They would help her prepare her father.

It was not work for a child.

* * *

**October, The Third Age, 3016**

  
As the light grew a little, she brought her eyes back to the ground at hand, studying her next move. She lay crouched, almost flat, against the soft grass and her gloved fingers moved over the trail. Ahead and eastward, the early sun of morning climbed the mountain range, setting its peaks on fire in a golden light. To her other side a dark forest edged into the horizon; fading to the distant blue, and out of the forest a river flowed to meet them. Her lips pursed in thought, brow furrowed as she attempted to read the signs before her.

She could feel eyes watching her, assessing her work, and she squared her shoulders with firm determination. The ridge upon which she and her companion stood went down steeply, and before them spread an open landscape of plains and hills. Stepping around the trail, careful not to ruin her only lead, she peered out over the stony shelf. The grass swelled like a green sea where she had previously found indentations in the wet ground; how she hated tracking through open land. There was very little to be found in grass.

The wind was on her back, tugging at her woolen cloak; soft and warm, scented faintly with wood flowers, as late Autumn was stirring the lands before passing to Winter. Such a wind was of no use to her. "It is headed south, over the plains," she spoke, hoping he could not hear the hesitation in her voice – although she felt it clearly. And so she turned to face her companion. "We are not far behind."

The weather-beaten gloves held their horses close at hand; his heavy dark-green cloak, stained in his travels, was drawn close about him. He returned her gaze evenly, but the gleam in his grey eyes was unmistakable. The corner of her mouth twitched. "Indeed?" He mused. "And what makes you draw such a conclusion to our hunt?" Stepping closer to assess the trail, he bent down and carefully ran his free hand over the muddy dips in the grass. Reading them better than she ever could. "I wonder how you came to such an answer. But, indeed, the grass has been trampled recently, and you are correct when you say it is headed south. Did you gather this by the shape of the marks, or by some other means?"

He came to his full height again, waiting for her to answer. The horses tripped restlessly, eager to be on their way again, for the air was cold and gnawing on the ridge. Clearing her throat, eyes flickering from him to the ground, she gave a short nod. "By the shape of the hoof-print, yes." She pointed and gestured. "Do you not believe the same?"

"Indeed it is so," he answered, but the amusement in his voice concerned her. What mistake had she made this time? "Though the fact I can see it down below in the valley made my trackings all the more easier." Her mouth snapped shut, and she quickly turned to look out over the edge to the lands below.

And surely enough, a black dot between the green, the deer grazed on the open meadows with little concern to the hunters following. With a scowl in his direction, she bit back a sour remark and pulled the bow free from her back. Then she nocked an arrow. I should have noticed, she scolded herself in her mind, irked by the novice mistake. Hearing, touch, smell, taste, and sight. Foolishness! Taking aim, she gauged the distance and deemed it within easy reach. The string was pulled tight, stretched to its fullest.

"Remember where to hit, Rell," he guided, fondness clear in his voice, much rather than the edge of a master's stern appraisal.

"I know."

And so did he, too, of course. She exhaled. While she could not boast of her skills at tracking, for they were poor indeed, she knew well how to handle a bow. And she did so skillfully. Her hands were steady. It would be costly to have a wounded, bleeding deer running about in terror across the plains. A clear, true shot penetrating both lungs was her aim, and she would make sure it was so.

Then she loosened the string.

The arrow carved the air, and the deer had no time to react; it pierced the spot she had aimed for, and the animal collapsed with a violent twitch but moved no further. A hit made with certainty saved her a trek through the hills, attempting to find the dying animal wherever it had run off to in terror. She slung the bow across her shoulder, gave her uncle a look, and took the reins to her horse; mounting, she descended the steep hill with the other Ranger following behind.

Rell found the deer easily in the tall grass.

Black, lifeless eyes stared up on her as she approached. It was large enough to last weeks, and they had tracked it for many miles through the forest; they would not have starved without it, for a Ranger could always find food in the undergrowth, so instead her uncle had used it as a lesson in hunting. Carefully wedging the arrow free, hoping it could be used again for she only had few left, she then proceeded to hoist the animal up onto the back of her horse.

She would have preferred to gut and clean it then and there, but they had still a while to go before making camp for the night. They had been on the road for a month and were now returning to the village of her birth; in earlier days they could be away for more than half a year, trading news and reports with their fellow Rangers when they met in the wild, but it was not so any longer.

The world was changing – and not for the better.

The darkness stretched far, and its reach grew ever longer. Grasping for footholds where Men allowed it to enter. Trouble brewed in the horizon to the East; orcs gathering in large numbers, bolder and stronger than ever before, and the watchful peace they had long enjoyed was drawing to an end. Still, they only spoke of it with quiet voices laced with alarm, for they knew how to read the signs yet also wished dearly that the readings would be wrong.  
It was but a glimmer of hope that the omens of ill were but rumours.

Everyone knew war was soon upon them.

On the open plains the wind blew unrelenting; it began as a whispering in the air and she pulled her cloak closer, feeling the first droplets hit against her cheeks and back. The two Rangers needed not speak, they both knew their destination and the way, and so she steered further south while keeping the flowing river to her left. Its stream was slow, lazy, as only little water fed it from the mountains in the far distance. The shimmering surface dulled when grey and black clouds drifted over them, and soon the rain fell heavily; beating down on their bent and hooded backs.

So much rain fell that the sound blurred into a long, whirring noise, grating on her ears and it drowned out all else.

The horses knew the path, an easy and flat stretch straight onward, trotting through the tall swaying grass. The landscape was an uninterrupted and endless ocean of green and soon she found her thoughts to be wandering as they often did. Through seven winters and seven summers, Rell had followed her chieftain into the wild, but only in the last two had she been able to wield her father's sword; finally strong enough, where previously a much smaller blade accompanied her bow and arrows out into combat.

Over the long years their journey had taken her far; through ever-changing landscapes and seasons. Through a heavy blanket of snow, painting the world a blinding white, she had traversed the treacherous pass of the Redhorn Gate. Sheer and steep slopes of Caradhras, into the Dimrill Dale. Over open plains and grasslands, where great herds of horses roamed free, the trampling of hooves like thunder; where shepherds shared meagre meals over the fire, trading stories from far away lands. Beneath the ancient mallorn-trees in the kingdom of the Silvan Elves, in a world where time stood ever still and the songs were beautiful. Rell knew the stars in the sky well, and many a night she had spent gazing upwards to the small, shimmering gems strewn across a vast darkness. She had learned to hold her head high, indifferent to the disdainful looks turned her way. Unashamed of the hushed whispers and gossips in dim tavern-rooms, or harsh voices spit to her face, where few saw their presence as little more than a nuisance at best.

She pulled a sleeve across her face as water trickled down her brow, obstructing her vision, but she was otherwise not caring about the downpour. Her uncle had pulled his horse ahead when her own had lessened its pace, matching her slow wandering thoughts. Rell bothered not to spur her horse forward, and instead followed behind and kept her gaze on the muddy ground below. The chill of late Autumn was approaching swiftly, and soon their vigilant watch would be needed, for ever did evil stir when light wanes.

When Winter came, so did all things horrid and malicious.

Often they had hunted great wolves in the deep forests and mountain passes, using spears and torches, keeping the peace in the region of Eriador; bandits became restless and increasingly desperate in order to make it through the Winter months, and orcs took advantage of the longer hours of night. There was little rest for a Ranger.

The pair was then returning from the Ettenmoors, where they had hunted small packs of goblins venturing too close to the valleys before the foothills of the Misty Mountains. Her cloak was still flecked with dark, almost black, patches of blood that smelled almost as horrible as the creatures themselves; the quiver on her back nearly empty. In the midday sun, blinding in the eyes of a creature of Morgoth, a pair of Rangers had easily brought death with them. The fleeing remnants they had hunted through the jagged stone-lands with ease.

But now it was time for them to find their way home.

Rell and her uncle had for a long while followed the Hoarwell, the waters bleak and dull from which it had earned its name, a dreary companion. Mitheithel – grey-spring – but when the waters turned and skirted the edge of a forest of beech trees, they too turned away and moved the straight way west.

Her uncle had steered them only through parts of the wood, never straying far from its edges, and only ever when they would save time by passing beneath the large shadow of branches. Ever watchful, with the chirping of birds and the rustle of leaves as company, they followed a downtrodden dust-path seldom used by any other creatures. The upland woods were haunt to trolls, in shallow caves deep within the darkened forest, but they met no enemy on the road so far from the hills.  
Soon they left the cover of trees and entered the last leg of the journey, now crossing the green hills she knew so well. Many years had she spent here, learning how to track and hunt in the wilderness; how to tell apart edible roots and berries from poisonous ones, to scavenge for food and to stomach what others could not. Not far now, two days at most if they did not rest for the night, they would reach her childhood home, although she knew her uncle had other plans first. To a valley where the sound of running water was loud, and where every day throughout the year was here blessed with beauty and song; to the house of Lord Elrond, in Rivendell where her uncle had resided as a child. Words of guidance and news of the world were there shared, and the weary could rest their feet. Rell pulled herself from thought, feeling the rain lessen to a light drizzle until it ended completely; she brushed back her cloak and looked up.

Cloudy skies of grey stretched unending above her, but ahead rays of light pierced the cover as wind swept across the land.

Morning had turned to late noon while she had been lost in thought, and peering back she could no longer make out the ridge they had earlier climbed, nor the ravine they had followed down. The river was but a thin, glowing line of silver far away, and it would soon be swallowed by the green. On her right, the tangled and dark forest followed their path, wretched boles fencing in the dark world beyond.

Muddy pools of water sloshed beneath her when she spurred her horse forward. She fell into pace next to her uncle, pushing wet strands of hair from her face before voicing a question. "Do we continue throughout the night or do we rest?" Contemplating grey eyes peered ahead into the distance at her words. They likely both looked forward to clean clothes and a warm bed, but neither were they in such a hurry as to push the horses unnecessarily through the night.

"We shall make camp at dusk," he said, "Once we reach the moors for shelter."

Rell nodded, glad to rid herself of the drenched cloak that clung uncomfortably to her skin.

They continued on in agreeable silence, their shared company familiar, and it was only broken by soft neighs or a bird startled from hiding. The clouds soon drifted away on the wind, leaving only thin strips of white on an otherwise clear sky, and the chill in her body subsided to some extent; it would not be many hours before the sun would sink towards the horizon in streaks of red and gold, but the Rangers would continue on until then.

When finally the dark hours were about them and the road began to fall gently into the dusk, they sought a place to camp for the night between steepening hills and solitary outcrops of trees. The horses were tied to a nearby oak, and while her companion scoped out the area and collected firewood, Rell fed her horse a wrinkled apple and patted it down.

With the look she then received, almost human-like in its indignation, she quickly fished out another apple for her uncle's horse. "I apologize for my thoughtlessness, o great lord," she laughed, receiving a soft nuzzle against her arm. Then she proceeded to heave the deer off of her saddle, feeling the coarse fur rub against her cheek. It was a young doe, but still too heavy for her to carry far, so she was forced to drag it across the grass and away from their resting place; there she placed it on a slab of stone and pulled the knife from her belt.

Rell crouched on the ground.

Starting between the hind legs, she slit the skin and peeled it away with practiced ease; then the blade cut across the abdomen all the way to the jawbone, careful not to cut too deep to avoid puncturing anything. Rell then pulled the deer onto its side, and it did not take long before she had cleaned out the worst guts. Digging a hole in the soft ground, she discarded what she could not use, and covered it in a layer of dirt; it would do little to keep scavengers away, for the smell travelled far, but at least their own noses would be spared.

Then she began carving off the most tender meat for their evening meal, placing it on a nearby stone along with both heart and liver, before tying a thick rope around the hind legs. Making sure it was fastened, she hung the deer from one of the sturdier oak-trees, high enough off the ground so that no large animal would steal away with it during the night. Satisfied, she returned to the horses and found her uncle tending to a small fire that soon after roared to life.

With her waterskin she cleaned her hands for blood and grime, then quickly dried them against her outer tunic.

The wood was damp, letting out small crackles ever so often, and the smoke was dark; a spiral of blue-grey whirls. But they skewered the meat and let it roast over the flames as they settled, laying out covers for the night, and then they shared dried berries and roots from her satchel while waiting. The wind was sighing in the branches, and leaves were whispering. There was always a sense of disquiet when she was on the road, ears trained for sounds, but after a time, as the stars grew thicker and brighter in the sky, her unease lessened.

An air, earthy from the earlier rain, hung heavy around them. Her fingers worked a way through her braided hair, tugging insistently and loosening it until it fell down to her shoulders; tangled and knotted, she wrung the last dampness from her tresses.

Then she stretched, shoulders popping into place, and she crossed her legs. The warmth slowly crept over her skin, prickling but welcome as the numbness shied away.

She pulled a whetstone from her satchel and then meticulously began to sharpen her knife. It was sharp as is, but the familiar motion felt calming to her, a repetitiveness that kept her mind from wandering. Over and over; back and forth. The blade shone, reflecting the golden-red tendrils licking over the wood, when she twisted it in her grasp. Rell paused to check on the meat, turning the skewers halfway around, and inhaled the smell. With a yawn, she then leaned back on her elbows as her gaze found the other Ranger across the fire.

Smoke welled up, twisting in light grey puffs before vanishing into the dark, as her uncle was now drawing thoughtfully at his pipe. The sweet smell of pipeweed mingled with the cold air, and she smiled at the familiarity and the memories brought with it. Weather-beaten lines cast shadows across his face, brow furrowed in deep thought and his gaze adamantly looked into the flickering flames. Rell likely knew what he was thinking. A feeling of frustration clutched at her stomach, coiling around uncomfortably like a serpent writhing to get out, until her grip around the whetstone cut into her palm. She chewed the inside of her mouth.

They had not only stayed in Rhudaur, patrolling the area between the mountain range Hithaeglir and the swift-running Bruinen, to guard the small settlements scattered about the landscape. The Rangers were on a hunt. A long and weary hunt, following trails that had long since gone cold, in their search for a strange, elusive creature.

Not a beast, but neither was it a man.

Time and time again they had failed. It knew the waters well, both rivers and lakes, slipping away into murky depths, and it scaled treacherous cliff walls with ease, where they could not tread. She knew not fully the reason why, for the Grey Wizard had only opened up his heart to her uncle for council. That was now some fifteen years ago, and long before Rell had joined him on the road. It had been the start of a long and hopeless search for news. With naught but a few footprints in the softest of mud along a riverbank, or whispered rumours of an evil creature stealing children from their cradles, to follow.

Cunning, it hid from both daylight and moonshine, and often made a way through the dead of night that was both swift and soft. Never before had she heard tales of such a creature; the stories made her skin turn cold, and the secrecy between her uncle and Gandalf the Grey was equal measures curious and worrisome. What need drove them to continue a fruitless hunt?

Over the years he had explored the Wilderland, to lands she had never – nor wished to – see. To the fences of Mordor, in the shadowed regions of the world; searching dark hills and rotting mires. But always had he returned to the village without success. Face grim with both dejection and determination. Her curiosity was great, but she did not ask. If her chieftain deemed it necessary for her to know, then he would tell her – and only then. Though Rell could not help but wonder.

Why had the watch around the Shire doubled?

Beasts and birds, spies of many sorts, gathered around its borders, and she found it to be strange. Concerning. What use had the world of the gentle Hobbit-folk? She looked up to the stars, watching the Valacirca bright above the shoulder of a darkened mountain range to the east, its light ever growing and dimming as clouds drifted by. Further, Elemmírë twinkled, its light kindled long ago to welcome the awakening of the Elves, and it was so beautiful and unreachable. The sight renewed her strength. They could never be touched.

Even if the Rangers and all the free peoples were to face the evils of the world, against the Lord of the Black Lands himself; even if the Dúnedain would cease to exist, this light would never truly be quenched. It could never be tainted. The wounds on the world could never run so deep, never leave scarrings on the truly beautiful once, so long ago, created by the Valar.

Finally, the meal was ready, and a hungry stomach pulled her from her brooding thoughts. With a skewer each, Rell found the meat to be tender but with little flavour; they had no spices or salt to season it with, making the taste rather bland in her mouth as she chewed. But the food was filling, and she could ask for nothing more so far from a homely hearth. The waxing moon loomed huge upon the speckled expanse, climbing as darkness settled. Neither Ranger spoke much as they ate, and soon Rell settled on the ground with the cover pulled close around her body.

He would take the first watch.

At first she listened to the sound of night around her, eyes closed and hand resting on the hilt of her sword. Fingers clenching and unclenching. The breeze made the trees around her murmur, soft singing voices in an ancient language she could not understand, and the fire danced across her eyelids. Despite the drowsiness, making her arms and legs feel as if stones weighed her down, she struggled to fall asleep. But with the warmth of the fire and the soft rustles of her uncle's shifting movements, Rell finally gave in to sleep. Again she could smell the low burning of his pipe. It would not be long until her watch, and rest was always precious.

The world turned dark around her.


	2. To a Homely Hearth

After their morning meal the Rangers began to pack their belongings through easy habit, movements practiced and fluid for they had done it many times before. Each had their own role, and they found it without speaking. Rell stomped out the last embers, making flakes of ash flutter into the air around her, while her uncle hoisted the deer up onto his horse. In the early morning light, he had roused her to take the second watch, and she had watched the sky slowly turn lighter. Dark blue, until the stars faded and the dim sun rose above the eastern horizon. A misty glow of paleness, red and yellow intermingled.

Nothing happened that night worse than a brief drizzle of rain an hour before dawn. And as soon as it was fully light, they started on the road again, their horses well rested and fed from the moist, dewy grass about them. The plains were covered in mist, thinning in the rising sun, and the world appeared ghostly pale in the dimness. The further they travelled, the pair was soon fenced by steep grey hills whose sides were clad with trees, until the grass beneath them made way to grey rocks.

Time passed, and they continued on; through willow-thickets and past great oakwoods, climbing on the skirts of the hills. In the shades of dark boles and cliff walls. In the distance to her left, the mists lay over the marshes fed by the Loudwater, and an acrid stench was in the air as the wind was brought to them. They followed the path in silence, taking the winding way up the green shoulders of the hills; and down once more.

Mile by mile the path wound away, all the lands were green and grey and still.

At length the rocks towered up as the sun climbed across the sky. The clear light bore down on her, warm on her dark hair until beads of sweat trickled down her brow, despite the passing of seasons. She rolled up her sleeves, and it was not long before she had emptied her waterskin. It had been a warm Autumn. Clacking hoofs reverberated between the rock walls, now jagged ridges so tall on both sides they obstructed her view of the surrounding lands.

Nevertheless, she worried not, where she might have any other place, for there was a thrum in the air that spoke of ancient and powerful magic. _Elvish_ magic. White flowers bloomed, their green vines twisting around saw-toothed stones with little care; in the distance a roar rose, first but a soft mumble in the air that steadily grew, but soon the first waterfalls came into view in the valley below.

The path was narrow, following the bluff while slowly descending, and an abrupt drop met her when she gazed down.

Rushing waters cut through the valley, white foam crushing against the riverbank in rapid swirls. Rell expected guards had already spotted them upon entering the valley, bringing news to the Lord of the Last Homely House East of the Sea, who would soon stand ready to receive them. Around them there were no great walls nor fortifications save for the natural protection, provided by the valley's high ridges; yet Rell felt no worry once the silent hum of magic engulfed her. Here was safety.

There was only a single pathway across several bridges, spanning the rolling river, too narrow to be taken by any host of enemies if there were any within that could hold weapons. And certainly they would be met with resistance, for many a great Elf-Lord called Imladris home. Rell gazed with wonder, for it was more splendid than any other place she had visited – only truly rivalled by the woods of Lothlórien, where she had walked only once years before.

No matter how many times she came to Rivendell, she would admire its beauty with reverence.

They passed beneath the arch at the last bridge, and the warm sun that shone down beyond the ridge glowed here on the smooth walls and pillars. Blindingly white and with an ethereal beauty that left visitors breathless. Rell dismounted and pulled her horse into the courtyard. Already it seemed, just as she had predicted, that word of their coming had gone before them.

Servants of Lord Elrond took away their travel-weary horses, neither mount appearing in the slightest reluctant to part with their masters at the soft words of Elvish promises, of oats and carrots. _Traitor_ , she thought with good humour, knowing well she would have done the same. Another Elf, fair to behold as they all were, led them inside, but here the Rangers parted ways. This time it was promises of a warm bath and fresh clothes that lured Rell to a small and private chamber. Her uncle had council to seek in the Hall of Fire, which interested her very little in that moment. She had smelled terrible for weeks now.

The small room was familiar; Rell had stayed there many times before when they returned from the road, and she could not help but wryly wonder if not the Elves soon thought the place to be hers. Clothes were already laid out for her on a small cabinet; soft wool and silks brushed against her hands as she pooled them, feeling the fabrics run through her fingers. A dark blue shirt embroidered with thin, golden threads, and trousers in a brown almost black fabric. Simple but indisputably beautiful.

Rell loosened the belt around her waist, setting her weapons aside as a large tub caught her attention. The wood was carved with small, intricate flowers and leaves, running along the edge. It was already filled with clear water; steam welled up, filling the room with a floral scent of honey-flowers and daffodils, and she dipped her fingers in to gauge the temperature. _Perfect._

Then she stepped fully out of her clothes, folded them carefully before putting them aside, and quickly submerged herself in the warm water with satisfaction. A sigh escaped her lips. Her muscles instantly responded to the heat, the tautness draining like a dam breaking. Holding her breath for a few, long moments to soak her hair below the water, she soon resurfaced with droplets trickling down her skin.

Rolling her stiff neck, she watched rings forming on the surface, growing large only to soon disappear, while scrubbing away at the grime and dirt on her skin with vigour. The water swirled to a murky brown from all the gathered dust and mud from the road, and she absently fiddled with a few small scabs running the length of her leg. It would not be long before they would heal fully, fading into small and white-dotted scars to accompany the many others that littered her skin.

Her body was flecked with bruises and injuries, most naught but small nicks collected during practice, though a larger mark bloomed over her lower abdomen, a yellow-blue flower of blackening discoloration. A hand brushed over the skin to appraise her injury and she winced, pulling a face. She had dodged the blade swung at her, aimed to separate her head from her shoulders, but in her resulting fall she had instead landed down hard onto rocks.

With a sigh she leaned back, resting her head against the edge of the tub, and allowed her mind to wander.

Golden light shone through the opened doors, leading out to a small balcony overlooking the valley below. Thin curtains fluttered in the breeze, and long shadows danced across the ceiling; Rell stayed in the water long after it had turned cold, knowing well her presence would not be needed until evening. There was no rush. And she was tired and weary, and all the on goings of the world she left to her wise uncle for there was little she could say. The world was a vast place; with many people, from the common farmer in his field, to great kings and queens in halls of white marble. Rell knew very little of such things, and she was much content leaving her uncle to handle matters of great importance.

She was no great leader of Men.

Rell had spent time in Rivendell before; here she learned to read and write, to speak the languages of the Eldar – although the ancient _Quenya_ proved a challenge that, in the end, she gave up on. Her teachers, Elves, who had indulged the young mortal in her quest for knowledge and with little else to spend their eternal time on, had found her sullen temper delightful and pressed no further.

Here was a place of learning, of shared knowledge, but it was never forced upon its visitors. Of course, her uncle had another opinion on that matter. He relented when she instead mastered _Sindarin_ ; for most Elves still living East of the great seas understood the language, and – as Rell interjected – she spent much more of her time amongst Men. They would understand very little. All the foregone days of old had long passed to be forgotten, and her interests lay in the open lands and a world yet to be explored. While she could recite every lineage of Kings, backwards and forwards; standing on her head; from the First Age to present day, her passion drew her mind elsewhere.

In the great libraries she found beautifully preserved scrolls, the thinnest of parchment so light to the touch that it would almost crumble, and trace every border of land, mountain range, and river until they became unforgettable in her mind. They called to her. Gripping the edge of the tub, she climbed out and draped a soft towel around her body. Water pooled around her feet. _Youthful rashness_ , her uncle fondly called it, whenever she attempted to shy away from lessons of nobility and courtly manners. Avoiding subjects she found of no interest.

_Pointless_ , was her usual response.

Rell stepped out onto the balcony, the cloth secured tightly around her, and felt the warmth of sunlight on her skin. Down by the river a small group of elves rested upon the stones, and the music they created weaved up in the air; it was playful and light, the tune a witty race against the roars of rushing waters, in a race to find the quicker one, and she leaned against the banister with eyes closed.

She listened, drying in the warm air for a while she knew not how long.

When finally dressed, the young Ranger left the small chamber and ventured out into the house. First considering to track down her uncle, Rell followed the corridor and passed several doors on both sides; on second thoughts, she instead steered towards the gardens, for even if he had finished council with Lord Elrond, surely the Dúnedain chieftain had sought out other company rather than hers. For, earlier that very year, word had been sent for Lady Arwen to return to Imladris as the lands eastward grew increasingly dangerous.

Rell smiled at the thought.

The courtship was the very epitome of bashful propriety, but the affectionate looks and hidden glances did not go unnoticed by Rell. Indeed not, the endearment between Arwen Undómiel, the Evenstar, and the mortal _Estel,_ Aragorn son of Arathorn, was obvious for those who knew them well. Rell prayed he would find happiness, for the life of a Ranger was often grim, walking the road of hardships and tribulations, and surely peace could be found with the beautiful maiden.

He _deserved_ happiness.

Rell stepped outside.

White flowers bloomed, the air heavy in sweetness, as if the passing from Autumn to Winter had no power over Imladris; the path she walked was cast in shadows, branches intertwined above her head where the trees grew dense, and it winded down the slope away from the main house. A stream wove in and out between flat stones, chuckling as it went along, but soon a small clearing opened before her between silvery boles.

For a moment Rell halted, gaze transfixed on the still statue bathed in golden beams of light that fell upon the trees and glade. But then a wind drew a blanket of clouds over the sky, and the glow faded. Her eyes grew accustomed to the newly fallen gloom; then she stepped forward, the pebbles crunching below her boots as she approached the grave. Rell had never met her grandmother, for Gilraen had resided in Rivendell ever since her husband's death many years ago.

She kneeled at the foot of the statue, so life-like in appearance; solemn and sorrowful, in a way that spoke much about the woman's life. Rell could scarcely fathom what it would be like, to lose the one you love and live more than seventy years without him. No beauty or magic of the Elves could heal a wound to the grieving heart. But she had raised two children to adulthood, done her duty to carry on the bloodline of the old Kings of Arnor, before she had joined her husband in the world beyond theirs.

"Greetings, grandmother," she said softly, a smile playing at her lips. It was but a silly notion to speak with the dead, but she found some unexpected comfort in doing so. "I have returned – and I made sure to keep your son out of trouble." Rell pulled a face, considering her own words for the briefest of moments. "If he was here with us now, he would likely claim it to be otherwise and rather I, that need watching. But we both know better, yes?"

Calloused hands gently brushed away fallen leaves and earth from the marble stone. The Elves were diligent in their care of the grave, but still it was seldom visited upon, as to them years were but the blink of an eye. Only the Dúnedain truly came to pay their respects, and more often than not they were called away by duty. Time and neglect showed, even if only in the smallest of details. The slight discolouring; the pure white turning dull. Greying. Shifting in discomfort from the cold protruding stones digging into her legs, Rell gazed up on the smooth face.

A soft and melodious laugh stirred the quietude, and even though she knew not to fear enemies here, under the protection of Rivendell, she nonetheless startled at the sound. Rell turned quickly; not with the intent to strike at the person, but rather with a wry smile spreading across her features. " _Le suilon_ , Lady Arwen!" She scampered to her feet, bowing in greeting at the revered half-elven. A palm pressed flat against her chest. "I did not expect to meet you here."

_Not when my uncle is elsewhere_ , she added in silent thought.

The Elf, an ethereal beauty rivalling that of the fair maiden Lúthien of olden legends, mirrored her motions – though with a whole lot of grace more than Rell. "Avarell," the lady spoke; her voice was kind, other-worldly gentle and light-hearted, and the grey eyes twinkled in the sunlight. More than likely with amusement. "My father wishes for you to join them, and I was tasked in finding you for him."

"My lady, you should have but sent a servant to collect me, and not yourself," Rell said, apologetic to have forced one so fair to such a task.

It felt awfully wrong to her.

A smile was the first reply, but then Arwen shook her head; dark locks of hair rolled down her shoulders, gleaming almost inky black in the dimness of the glade, and she held out a hand. Beckoning for Rell to come to her on the path. "It was no inconvenience to me, for I much enjoy the freshness of the air before dinner. And the garden is beautiful this time of year. Now come, if you please, let us walk together."

While Rell was tall for a mortal, due to the blood of the Númenor flowing unbroken through her veins, she was of no match against the maiden at her side. Slender and tall in the perennial blue robes girt with silver, a regal air in her bearings that bore the half-elven forward with grace; where the Ranger was lean and toned, with strength to throw most men she came about. Even those twice her size. The Elf turned and went slowly up the path towards the house, barely making a sound on the gravel path.

In the presence of the other, Rell felt like a _mûmak_ trampling through the garden; despite the quiet, accustomed feet of a Ranger that left her steps still, in comparison it seemed not so. The sky above and to the east was darkening, fading into distant grey, and wind-blown clouds approached with a promise of rain.

Far away lightning flickered among the tops of hidden hills, but in the wind she could feel a shift to the north, and soon the storm would recede. It would roll away to the rough sea, sparing them from the downpour and the thunder. The pair walked in silence, and it was not long before they passed back into the great house. Lady Arwen led her to an open hall, with windows overlooking the valley below and light slanting in, and here she found her uncle seated. While Rell had enjoyed a long bath, it appeared her companion had had little time to do the same.

His muddied cloak had been discarded, but he still wore the boots and clothes from the road. Sharp-eyed she regarded him, a frown upon her features _._

How long had his council been with Lord Elrond? _And what about?_ His eyebrows were deeply furrowed in thought, and many small puffs of smoke welled up from his pipe. Rell knew that look all too well; news – _and no good ones for certain_ , she thought glumly – had reached him. Besides her uncle, four guests sat she did not recognize, and the Lord Elrond. When the customary greetings had been exchanged, and the the great lord gave a brief and humoured comment on her successful hunt, Rell was showed to a seat at the high table with cheeks and ears flaming.

Dinner was served.

After so long journeying and camping, and days spent in the lonely wild, the evening meal seemed a feast; pale yellow wine, watered down for her, was cool and fragrant. To eat bread with butter; salted meats on _clean_ plates, with a fork and a knife. Without dirt under her nails! It was all a very quiet affair, where she first spoke only little and ate much. Over the evening she came to learn that the guests were emissaries from Mirkwood, the great forest in Rhovanion – although they, of course, introduced it as _Greenwood_ the Great. And rather pointedly, at that.

What news brought on behalf of the Elvenking Thranduil they would not speak, but one silver-haired Silvan Elf seated to her right told her other tales of the world. Rell listened more than she spoke for she had little of her own to share that could be of interest. There was much to tell of the events in the northern regions of Wilderland, and in the lands between the Mountains and Mirkwood neither orc nor wolf yet dared to go. Or, at least, ever managed to escape alive.

"Though it is still a hazardous journey to Imladris," the Elf explained. His words were in Sindarin, for Rell had quickly learned how little he could speak in the Common tongue. It had not come to her as a shock; Silvan Elves were known to be secretive and proud, and often they preferred seclusion from the other races, unlike their distant kin that were open to the neighbouring lands. They had little use of other the tongues of the wide world beyond their borders.

Dangers lurked in many places, he told her, and while the gates to the Elvenking's Halls had previously been barred for most, they now broadened their relationships with both Men and Dwarves. One more welcome than the other, the Elf had added, and Rell, of course, knew of which he preferred. He shared with her stories of great spiders, with webs un-pierceable by most weapons, and goblins and trolls venturing further from the Grey Mountains. Darkness spreading, reaching ever further. The enemy grew bolder. _Too_ bold. She latched on to his every word and was an ever captivated listener, asking many questions about all he said.

At length the feast came to an end. Elrond and Arwen rose and went down the corridor, and the last of the guests followed them in due order; they then entering a great hall flanked by pillars on either side, where a bright fire burned in the hearth. It was a place of stories, one where they had often spend the hours of night and the first of dawn, listening.

While the elves each found a seat and minstrels began to make music, Aragorn led Rell to a alchove partially hidden from the company. Her gaze swept across his features attentively, for her unease had grown much during the dinner. The Dúnedain chieftain had spoken only very little, hushed and in secret, with Lord Elrond and no one else; weariness was in his face, even more than it had been on the road, and it was a great concern to her.

Rell chewed her lip, debating whether to voice her thoughts or keep quiet.

But then Aragorn made the choice for her. He pressed a sealed envelope into her palm, insistently, and, as she turned it over in her hands, he then spoke. "I need you to return on your own." Her thumb ghosted over the gleaming seal of red wax, the six-pointed star, allowing the words to settle in her mind. Her brow furrowed, and her finger paused. "Bring this letter to Halbarad, in it he will find instructions to follow while I am away."

" _Away_?" She repeated in surprise; Rell found the word to be strange in her mouth, foreign, as if she had heard him wrong. He was to go, and she could not follow? So very little sense it made to her. "Am I not to go with you?"

Sensing her apprehension he placed a hand on her shoulder, but his tone was strict and closed for discussion. There was no patience in his words. "You have yet to finish your training, and I have received news from Rhovanion that must not be ignored. I cannot do both, and this is of grave importance. I will depart soon, tonight at the latest. And for this task I shall go alone."

"Then surely I should come with you!" Rell argued, brushing aside his words. She clutched at the letter until it was crumbled in her hand. If she had been a little younger, she would surely have stomped her feet. "It would make much more sense in order to complete my training as a Ranger. I have yet to experience those lands so far beyond the mountains; I know everything there is to know about Eriador, the rivers and hills are as familiar as my own hands. The paths, well-trodden and hidden – I know them all. Every bird and beast. Should a Ranger not know _all_ of the world?"

Aragorn shook his head, but she did not allow him to speak.

"If you will not allow me to go with you, then I shall just follow on my own!"

At this his gaze hardened. "No, Rell, you will return to Halbarad with the letter. As your Chieftain I command this of you." His words made her divert her eyes, ashamed, now turned to the shadowed floor in quiet resignation; even if she wanted to, there were some things she could not argue against. This matter was not for disobedience, and while her uncle gave her many liberties now was not one of them. The order was direct, and she was sworn to follow. "Do I make myself clear?"

She remained silent.

"Rell?"

She chewed the inside of her mouth, remaining silent.

" _Avarell_?"

"Yes," she murmured, "I understand, uncle."

Yet her mind reeled in disarrayed thoughts. Where was he going that made it too dangerous for her to go? Was it the strange creature he had hunted for years, now to bring the Ranger far from home? When would he return? With her mind still jumbled, Rell was then informed of her own departure that very same evening; a light meal and water had been prepared by servants of Lord Elrond, and her clothes cleaned, washed, and dried. New arrows, long and strong, filled her quiver. She was to depart from Rivendell at the same time as her uncle, but soon the road would split and she would continue on her own – and he would disappear into the thicket of trees, going into the East.

Where the enemy's power grew ever stronger.

Without her.

* * *

Riding was not unpleasant, for the slopes were but gentle hills and the sun was shining, clear but not too hot on her hooded head. The woods in the valley were still full of colour, and it all seemed so peaceful; Rell followed many turns, winding between great boulders and small chuckling creaks, and indeed it would not have been at all unpleasant – if not for the fact she was returning to the Angle alone.

She saw no sign and heard no sound of any other living creatures, except for a swift-passing shadow of a bird high above, or a quick-footed fox slipping through the bushes, and she was left alone with her thoughts. Despite the letter weighing close to nothing, it felt heavy in her pocket; a feather coated in lead. Burning into her mind, gnawing at her heavy heart. Rell had left Rivendell in the late afternoon, and she had spent the day feeling miserable and lonely. _Worried._ Ahead, a line of hills rose from the horizon, and soon it would close in around her and the slope she now walked would steadily descent.

All that day she plodded along, until the cold and early evening came down upon her. Mists lay heavy over the plains, grey and damp, and the bleak and treeless backs of the hills loomed on above. The road was still running steadily downhill, and there was now much grass and nothing else growing on either side. Soon the light of the sun paled, dimmed, until the sphere set in a last blaze of orange and red. Then darkness came about her. The only warmth radiated from her horse, trotting faithfully along and proved quite undisturbed by her sullen mood.

Several times she found her fingers absently fumbling with the silver brooch, fastened to her cloak, turning it over in her hand.

When finally lights gleamed through the vapours, only tiny dots in the dark at first, she could soon make out the contours of a village. Dark, almost one with the night, but there it was. The Angle was a bowl-shaped hollow, sheltered by steep cliffs and hills, just a day's journey from Imladris to the south-west; the only road was the one Rell was following, winding through a landscape of hills watched by both Elves and Rangers. Here lived the last remnants of the Dúnedain of Arnor – her family, and friends she had known since childhood.

She reined in her horse on top of the last hill and looked back, away from the village lights, into the darkness of night. Hesitation fell on her, her gloved fingers balled into fists, and a pull drew her heart to the distant east. Foreboding thoughts drained away her already waning resolve. Biting the inside of her mouth, she stirred her steed forward, and they scrambled on through the weary night. A wind brushed against her face, chill and damp.

With her head bowed, she reached the small village of thatched roofs and stone hedges.

The guards, huddled around a brazier for warmth and cloaked in wool and fur, stepped forward upon her approach. They wielded long spears, but could easily recognize one of their own even in the dim light, and greeted her with cordiality. She lowered her hood, nodding a swift acknowledgment to all three Rangers. "Well met, Avarell," one said and stepped forward, spearhead now rested against the ground. Then his gaze flickered past her and a look of bewilderment came over his features. "Has the chieftain not returned with you?"

"No," she responded tersely, saying nothing more. Bowing her head in farewell, she motioned to carry on and her horse tripped in mirrored impatience. The guards stepped aside, allowing her passage down the uneven road. Their faces held confusion, and she paused. "His presence was needed elsewhere," Rell added quietly.

There were no more than a dozen houses in the village, and often more than one family shared a home; the women found solace in each other when the men were away, _and_ – her mind added – _so few remain_. Many homes stood empty. Their numbers were ever dwindling. Lights still burned in a couple of cottages, but most had turned in for the night. A quietness lay heavy over the settlement, only broken by her horse's clip-clop of hoofs beating down on the dust path. A goat bleated softly. Rell came to the largest house in the village, and here she found the orange glow of a fire pouring out from the windows.

She dismounted, quickly securing her horse to a wooden post and, after digging a carrot from her satchel to feed it, stepped up to the door. At first no response came from her swift-falling knocks, but then booted steps approached from beyond; the door was pried open on screeching hinges to reveal a familiar face. The man, hands relaxed but hovering close to the hilt of his sword, appeared surprised and his grey eyes swept swiftly over her. "Already, you have returned?"

"I have," she said and stepped past him inside.

The heat of the room hit her immediately, setting her chilled skin ablaze. Rell pulled off her bow, quiver, and cloak before turning to him; Halbarad, trusted captain to the Dúnedain chieftain, looked the same as when she set out a month earlier. Dark greying hair, a weathered face, and the large build of a warrior – other than the already healing gash across his cheek and purple-swelling marks.

Rell nodded her head at the injury. "What happened?"

"Just a bandit that got lucky," he replied.

The door was shut with a low click. "Or you are getting slow in your old age," she laughed, and even more so with the look he leveled her way. Discarding her cloak over a chair, she then walked to the fire and crouched, hands outstretched before her. A pause followed, where Rell watched the dancing flames in deep thought, as dreadful fears chased one another through her mind, but finally she spoke again. "I bring a message from my uncle, for he had to continue the journey further east and could not yet return."

She rose, finding the letter, and she handed it over. The Ranger quickly broke the seal, pacing back and forth across the floor, while she slumped into a chair by the fire. Her gaze followed him, waiting quietly, silently; her weariness and concern slowly giving way to fatigue, though she refused sleep to claim her mind. Not yet. "I see," Halbarad finally spoke, pace lessening, before he glanced her way thoughtfully.

He quickly walked off, entering what she knew to be the small adjacent pantry, and soon after returned. Rell was then offered a wooden bowl and a loaf of bread, and so her attention was turned to the pot over the fire with a nod of his head. She did not argue against the offering of food, for her stomach churned at the mere thought. The road and her worry had been long-stretched.

The soup was hot, almost scalding, but it warmed her chilled body – and she was _starved_.

While she ate, the pair sat in silence, but her gaze flickered ever so often to the letter now on the table before her. Rell chewed slowly, carefully thinking, before finishing a second bowl. The bread was long gone. Stifling a yawn, eyes watering, she fell back in the chair and stretched. How long had it been since she last slept properly? The freshly made and comfortable bed in Rivendell had been left behind, unused.

"You look exhausted," Halbarad said, keen eyes watching her. "Take my bed and get some rest, preferably before you fall over your own two feet! I will take care of your horse."

Suppressing the urge to inquire about the letter, she mumbled her thanks and slipped into a small alcove, shielded from view by heavy curtains. The wind howled as the door was opened and shut again, but then she focused her attention on the bed. While her trousers were mud-flecked from the road, Rell found herself to be too tired to discard them, and instead left the problem for the morning light.

She pulled off her boots, loosened the belt and her weapons to rest them against the bedside within reach; then she rolled the coarse covers around her body, and attempted to settle for the night. Turning over once, twice, thrice until she finally curled into a bundle of sheets with only strands of hair poking out.

The only problem proved to be that, despite how tired both her mind and body felt, sleep evaded her.

At first Rell lay with her eyes closed, attempting to empty her mind of whirling thoughts, while lights danced across her eyelids. Listening, as Halbarad entered the house once more, the footsteps across the floor, and the rattling and creaking boards as the winds of the night raged outside. With a soft sigh she turned over, now watching the darkened ceiling. Despite her best attempts, conflict still brewed in her gut, and she was no less against leaving her uncle than she had been in Rivendell. In fact, if anything, she felt even more obstinate.

She pressed open palms against her eyes, letting out a muted groan.

How could she disregard the orders from her chieftain? Disobedience would surely – and rightfully so – deserve punishment, but neither did it feel right to leave her uncle. Whatever the Grey Wizard had tasked him with, and even if she had not been allowed in on the council, surely two Rangers were better than one. _The letter_ has _been delivered to Halbarad_ , the alluring call of her mind whispered, enticing her to act, _that was_ all _he asked of you._

Rell sat upright, eyes snapping open.

Her uncle's orders said nothing about her _staying_ in the Angle.

Knowing well she was twisting his words to fit her, warping the truth, the idea quickly settled in her mind. If it ever came to her arguing what was right or wrong in this matter, she was likely to be scolded worse than ever before. But it was an excuse, good or terrible mattered little to her in that moment. Rell took it without hesitation.

Now waiting, Rell listened intently for Halbarad's breathing to calm beyond the curtains, and she carefully slipped into her boots. It was no easy task to sneak past a Ranger, and she could feel her heart hammering in her chest. When finally she felt assured he was asleep, a good hour of agonizing anticipation later, she pulled the curtains aside and stepped out onto the floor. He was sleeping in a chair, arms crossed over his chest by the warmth of the fireplace – and the letter on the table nearby.

Silently stepping closer, she picked up the letter all the while her gaze flickered nervously to the sleeping form. It would be wrong to read the contents, but knowing very little of her uncle's destination Rell needed more information. No harm could come from it – and no one would ever be the wiser. Inside, written in his strong but swift script was the following message:

_Halbarad,_

_News have reached me here in Rivendell, and I must go off at once. I shall leave command to you in my absence. It is imperative that the watch around the Shire must remain until my return, and you may choose who you must for the task. The training of Avarell I leave in your hands, and if you deem her fit for it, she may join the western post alongside you. I will be travelling through the Pass of Imladris and further along the Anduin, but I will disclose no further of my way for I know not what I will find. The road may lead elsewhere. I will return as soon as I am able._

_Strider._

Rell read the letter twice over, committing it to memory, before returning it to its place on the table. She swept the pantry for dried jerky and apples, as well as a couple of honey-breads; a wrapped block of cheese, and a small bag of nuts soon followed. Her waterskin she could refill on the road whenever she passed a stream. With her sword at her side, bow and quiver across her back, Rell breathed deeply. Then she grabbed her satchel and noiselessly slipped out of the door, hoping the hinges to be silent as to not alert the Ranger of her departure.

Outside was black, the waning crescent but a thin line of silver in a cloudless sky. With purposeful strides she crossed the square, knowing well a figure sneaking through the dark would raise suspicions, and slipped into the large stables. Most horses were fast asleep, only few stirring as she passed them with ears twitching; halfway down the line, Rell found a pair of clever orbs watching her. Halbarad had fed her horse a good deal of oats, and it was far too occupied to be asleep – let alone pay her any attention.

"I am sorry to take you from a well-deserved meal, Luin, but we must be on our way again."

Pulling the saddle down from the fence, Rell prepared the horse in a hurry, while her ears were trained on any sound from outside. The grey-dappled mare tripped back and forth, and more than once nudged her with its long neck to show its reluctance. When done, she took the bridle and steered the horse from the stables into the cold night. As if sensing its owner's mood, the mare made no sound, and she could mount without issue; then they rode through the sleeping village in a slowed pace, until finally reaching the guard-post once more.

Rell quickly explained her purpose; that she had only returned as a messenger, and that she was to join her uncle in the Wilderlands. They did not question her – and she pretended to let their hesitant glances go unnoticed. Then, hand raised in farewell, she spurred her horse forward. At once it sprang away and sped like the wind along the path, hoofs thundering in the silence. She looked back for a moment over her shoulder, fearful to see shadows springing out after her.

But the shadows of the village grew smaller, and soon only the lights of the braziers could be seen; two yellow eyes in the dark. She rode far in the cold chill hours before the first stir of dawn, and the moon was low; if she did not know the lands as well as she did, never would she have risked such a pace. But a distance had to be made, before the older Ranger would notice her disappearance and a pursuit would begin.

She felt no pull of sleep, but rather a vigour renewed with the fresh wind against her face. Cold stars were glinting in the sky. Eagerness welled up inside of her to hurry southwards, and she pushed Luin through the night and further still. With morning, the weather was grey and overcast, with an unrelenting wind bearing down on the traveler. The great green hills passed her in a blur, and the sunset was pale over its contoured ridges. Only a few hours after dawn, she left the jagged rock-lands of the Angle.

Ahead stretched open and unclaimed lands, for many miles still, until they would reach the foothills of the mountains.

Faintly she could make out the snow-capped peaks of _Hithaeglir_ , through the haze that lay about the plains as a grey cover draped over the world. A stillness in the heavy air foreboded storm, and she urged her horse forward. If luck was on her side the rain would hide the trail, and the pursuers – for surely Halbarad would send someone out for her – would lose track of her path.

_I shall apologize upon my return_ , she thought, knowing well the trouble she was causing. _And hope that they will come to forgive me._


	3. Cold and Biting, the Winds of Caradhas

* * *

It was not long before heavy raindrops fell from the skies. Puddles formed, and water splashed about as her horse pushed on, soaking her trousers in mud. She felt miserable and cold, but her gaze was fixed on the mountains ahead, growing ever closer as the hours passed. But despite the weather, dejecting as it was, an ever-present sense of anticipation weaved through her thoughts. Never had she been further than the glades of Lothlórien, skirted the borders of the Wold and the lands of the Rohirrim. From what she could glean from her uncle's letter he was to go much, much further.

Only once during the day did she halt; when the storm was at its peak and thunder rumbled in the distance, edging threateningly closer on the wind, she deemed it unwise to carry on. Many jagged rocks, dark teeth in a mouth of green, protruded through the grass, and Rell found an outcrop large enough to fit her horse and herself. Shielded partially from the downpour, Rell pulled her cloak tight and her knees close, hoping to wait out the storm. She tried to find some rest, because she knew the chances grew slimmer once she crossed over the mountains. Elves guarded both sides of the passes of the Misty Mountains, but from that point further onwards it was unknown lands to her – and the unknown was always dangerous.

Her back and legs ached from many hours in the saddle, and this time it did not take long before she fell into a fretful slumber.

For how long she was asleep, leaning against Luin's warm flank, she knew not; no sun could tell her much. But the thunder lessened, and a distant rumble running through the ground roused her suddenly. A tremor through the ground, faint. Finding her feet, she climbed the slippery stone and gazed out over the windy uplands. A line of trees stalked the horizon, still five leagues away to the north-west. Following with her eyes the shadowy eaves and its further slopes fading into the distant grey, she saw forms move across the plain between her and the trees.

There was a silence in the empty fields, but at length she could hear the beat of galloping hoofs as they came closer. Slowly, she took the long bow from her back and nocked an arrow, yet kept it pointed to the ground until she could make out the shape of the horse riders. They followed the trail for a while longer, then swerved off to approach the outcrop upon which she was standing. She recognized the riders, and she held up a hand in greeting, knowing well they had already spotted her.

The horses were lithe, clean-limbed and swift; their coats glistened in the rain, and their manes were braided with silver threads. Both riders had long hair that flowed out behind them, their faces stern and keen. In their hands were tall spears, and shirts of mail hung down upon their knees. While waiting for the elven scouts, the rainfall lessened to a lighter shower, turning to naught but a cold-touched drizzle. A gleam of sun through fleeting clouds fell on her hands as she returned the arrow to its quiver, now knowing there were no enemies about.

With great speed and skill the riders checked their steeds, and soon Rell found herself looking down on them from the stone outcrop. Luin whinnied a soft greeting. They halted at the rock; the tallest Elf rode forward, grey eyes running swiftly over her before he spoke. "What brings a Ranger of the North here, _alone_?" He asked in the Common Speech, while she climbed down the slippery rock to stand before him.

"I am to meet with my kin," she responded, pointing east to the hazy peaks still far away. "Beyond the Mountains. Do you have any news to share?"

His gaze followed her outstretched hand, and a darkened look passed over his features. "Winter lays claim on the heights of _Hithaeglir_ much sooner than its bordering lands, and its grasp is harsh. The lower pass is taken by orcs," he said, "It would be safer to take the Redhorn Pass at this time of year, though it is a further journey." Rell knew the elf's words were wise, but despite his guidance she shook her head.

"My companion cannot wait for me to take the long way around, and I must therefore find him on the road. The trail will grow cold if I take another path." She lowered her head in acknowledgment of his counsel. "I must take the High Pass. Through its perils."

He said nothing more.

She spent some time longer with the Elves, for they were also heading towards the foothills of the mountains. They were passing messages between the scouts camped at the rocky foothills and to Imladris, and so they rode side by side for a while. When the slopes grew steeper, and there was further between green tufts of grass, Rell bid them farewell and continued her journey alone. With the warning of orcs in the region, she took to the higher path, although it was a longer journey. She knew her uncle would do the same.

While she climbed, the wind suddenly fell and then veered round to the south.

The swift-flowing clouds lifted and melted away, and the sun came out, piercingly pale and bright.

It was a reassuring sight, and she hoped it would last until she passed over the Misty Mountains. Around her the cliff-wall rose ever taller, the path narrowed until she at times had to dismount and gently steer Luin by the hand. The snow-tipped peaks gleamed in the sun, dark and threatening as they bore down upon her. Tall and still distant. At length she passed the last line of trees; she was left in a world of cold grey stone. Rell rode on, climbing steadily but ever more slowly as the road wound up further and further. With the passing of noon the way soon turned white, crunching below her horse's hoofs, for here snow was present throughout the year.

The way became steep and difficult. The twisting and climbing road had in many places almost disappeared, and was blocked with fallen stones and boulders. A bitter wind swirled among the rocks, and she wound her way under a sheer wall of cliffs to the left, and the grim flanks of the mountain towered up in the gloom. Rell felt a soft touch on her face. Cold and numbing. She put out an arm and saw the dim white flakes of snow settling on her sleeve. A scowl marred her features, concerned with the change.

The High Pass was treacherous even in the sun, but a snowstorm was more than worrisome. She went on, but it was not long before the snow was falling fast, filling the air, and swirling into her eyes. Pulling the cloak down to shield her gaze, she set the pace much slower, for the path ahead could hardly be seen. A chill settled in her body, but she pressed on – careful not to slip and fall to her death. She had hoped to make the climb without delay, despite the risk, and now her thoughtlessness would make her pay dearly.

If her uncle had made it across the mountains he would only increase the distance between them further, and he would be lost to her in the wilderness around the Anduin. The wind was piercing, howling in her ears and biting at her skin, and the snow became a blinding blizzard. But still she pressed on. The cliff gave but a little protection, yet the snow flowed down in ever denser clouds until her horse struggled through knee-high piles. Everything around her was hidden in the snowfall, and she could barely see ahead, let alone the path beneath her feet. Often her legs would cave from exhaustion, shivering and numbed, but the snow did not relent.

She could not mount. In the treacherous white, Luin would need guidance, and Rell was then forced to fight her way through the dunes of snow. Careful, searching for footfall where often the path came to a sudden, and abrupt, end. More than once she clutched the rocks, balance almost lost, and the gaping white pit below loomed dangerously close.

Rell knew not what time of day it was, or for how long she struggled forward; the sky was dark, grey clouds heavy, and her eyes watered in the cold. Keeping her head bent, watching and struggling for sure footings, she tried to ride out the storm. Even if she could find a place to rest, to find some form of shelter, she had not brought any firewood to light a fire. There was no heat left in her body.

It would be a cold and sleepless night.

"I am sorry, Luin," she whispered through clattering teeth, running her gloved hand over the coarse hairs; countless flakes turned the mane white, but there was still heat to be found in the large animal. "You probably preferred the warm stables rather than this. And your oats ..." Rell found support against the horse, her limbs aching. She was chilled to the bone, her head dizzy at the mere thought of the long and painful march across the mountain. Black specks swam before her eyes, and then she feared the snow would get the better of her.

Would she succumb to the cold? Let it lull her to sleep until death claimed her, here on the mountain slope – where she would not be found before spring-time thawed the snow. When her eyelids became too heavy, and her legs gave in, Rell could still not see an end to the climb. Going further up and up. An unending whiteness, towering up ahead of her on the path. She had anticipated the coldness and the sting of the snow, but not the ferocity of the wind. All she could do was bow her head until her chin touched her chest, and to keep walking. Though her feet were freezing and her footsteps were small, sinking in past her ankles with every stride, she also knew each step took her further.

She could not stop.

It was growing darker still; the snow falling heavier and piling ever taller around her. Finally deciding to find a place to rest, she huddled down below a cliff-wall, where the bottom leaned in but a little. She hoped it would take the worst bite of the wind. Rell kept her back to the wall, and Luin stood patiently but dejected in front of her, screening her a little. Her skin burned in its numbness.

The snow kept mounting.

A great sleepiness came over her. Rell felt herself sinking fast into a warm and hazy dream, despite the warning in her mind; needle-pricks pierced her exposed skin, coloured red in frostbite as she drew the cloak tight. With a last effort, she came back to painful wakefulness, and gasping for breath where every inhale was painful. Her hands trembled and shook as she pulled some bread from the satchel. The snow whirled about them thicker than ever, and the wind blew louder. She wished for a fire, the smallest of flames, to keep the cold at bay; but in her hurry, she had been thoughtless. Reckless.

The meal was damp, tasteless in her mouth, but it did give some warmth and strength to her body. She knew that the storm was far from over, and the coming long hours of night would be much worse; neither pressing on nor going back down the mountain-path was an option, and the Ranger was forced to stay, praying for the best. With no choice but to wait and hope the Valar would be merciful. For the storm to pass.

The time dragged on.

It was soon evening, and the grey light was waning fast. The mountains were veiled in deepening dusk, the wind was cold, but not once did regret flicker through her thoughts. A premonition – or foreboding intuition, she knew not which – but she was certain her uncle should not go on his quest alone. Rell looked up at the sky, hoping to see the stars through the clouds, but all was dark. Her throat burned and her nose runny, a misty haze forming in front of her face whenever she breathed.

A dulled thought made her smile with little humour. _I should have taken the lower pass, risked the orcs – at least I could_ fight _them. Shooting arrows at the skies would do me no good ..._

Then, but a tiny pale flickering light peered down through the cover of clouds. Relief welled up inside her chest at the sight of _Valacirca_. She sent a silent prayer of thanks to Varda for the glimmering hope, rekindled, for soon after the snowflakes grew large and the harsh winds lessened. The clouds lowered and thinned. It felt like another hour before she could see the faint outlines of mountain peaks, grey teeth about her on all sides.

When the blizzard calmed and slowly a dim light began to grow, night had almost passed. Rell came to her feet; pain ran through her fingers when she pulled at the reins, urging Luin to its feet. The layer of snow was soft but deep, and her horse had little trouble carving a path through it for her to walk, albeit for her shivering body it was still with difficulty. The climb continued for half a day more, though it seemed far longer, before the slopes evened out and the path widened enough for her to mount. The heights above were hidden in great clouds still heavy with the threat of snow, and she quickly pressed on before the storm found renewed strength to unleash upon her.

_Hithaeglir_ had proven an overwhelming opponent.

It was a much welcome respite when she returned to the saddle, rubbing her arms and legs for warmth, and the slope began to descent. The wind was still cold, and snowflakes whirled about, but she barely noticed it by then. She was much too grateful for the change. Another day had soon passed on the mountain. While it was growing darker still, the landscape, covered in white, almost glowed. Rell flexed her fingers, then drew them over her face to wipe away the frosty chill. The path bent, and as the moonlight grew stronger it showed a world silent and shrouded, and the shapeless depths below were lost to sight.

When at length the mountainside began its true descent, the storm had waned enough for Rell to see the silverly sphere of the moon above; faint and veiled in grey clouds, but it was there. Watching her, lighting her path down. Sharp cliffs reared up more than twice the height of her horse, towering walls enclosing on both sides, and she had no other way to go. The Elf's warning resounded in her head – orcs were about in the hills. Rell could only hope the weather had deterred them from climbing this high, and that by morning they had retreated to their caves to hide from the long reach of the sun.

She could not safely enter the forest before the banks of the Anduin, at least not while night was still about and enemies could hide unseen. She would have to wait. Even if now were the hours of orcs and goblins.

But still she could feel the malice of the mountain, shivers crawling over her skin, as her eyes peered out over the great expanse. The Ranger was very weary; the blizzard had tired her out, and she wished deeply for rest. The wind was hissing among the rocks, and there was howling and wailing all around in the empty spaces of the night. Luin's nostrils flared as the horse shifted nervously, smelling something on the wind. Rell became immediately aware.

Her sword-hand curled around the hilt, while with the other tightened her grip on the reins.

There were servants of the Enemy in the mountains, but how close and how many she knew not. Drawing Luin to a halt, Rell weighed her options; to wait for the light of dawn, hoping the storm had passed for good; or to venture down to the lower pass with swiftness, but in the dark of night? She feared her horse could not make it to the forest, not with the icy and snow-covered path in their way. Broken bones would be her companion down, or worse. It would kill them both.

Making up her mind, she dismounted. "Let us start as soon as it is light tomorrow," Rell said. Then, with hesitation, added, "–if we can."

She worried about the jagged walls around them, knowing well it was a perfect place for an ambush, but in the otherwise snowy landscape the shadows gave some cover. For her defence in the night she found a gap between boulder-stones, large enough to hide her horse to some extent, and then she took to the long and sleepless watch. The bow lay over her knees, an arrow twirled between her fingers, as she looked out into the darkness.

Never was the sighing wind silent, weaving through the rocks; she sat rigid and alert, waiting for glowing eyes in the dark to spring forward, for the cries and howls to be orcs, hunting the lonesome figure in the snow. Sometimes nearer and sometimes further off. In the dead of night she knew not if it was stars in the sky, cresting the broken hilltop, or shining eyes. Was she being watched? Or was her weariness tiring her out enough to see things that were not there?

Everything appeared hostile, lurking dangers amidst the shelterless lands.

The night was growing old, and westward the moon was setting. It gleamed through the breaking clouds, and only a little snow had piled up throughout the hours of darkness. The first light of dawn came dimly in the sky; she watched it, eyes hooded, and a sigh of relief escaped her lips. The bleakness parted and gave way to crimson streaks.

Rell had made it through the night. Cold and exhausted, but alive. She had seen no sign of enemies apart from the sounds, and when she checked her surroundings in the growing light, she found no traces of orcs. No footprints. Nothing, and she nearly laughed; how exhaustion played tricks on the weary mind! The snow looked untouched.

Pure.

She fed Luin the apples from her satchel, took another bread for herself, and while eating watched the steep snow-clad slope as it led down the mountain. Ahead, the lands were uncovered with the parting of the clouds; rocks and crevices gave way for grasslands and trees in the far distance, and the region of Rhovanion spread out before her eyes. A light was upon it, pale and new, and she took a moment to trace her road. What little she knew of her uncle's journey, he was to follow the great river as written in his letter.

_But how far?_ She wondered. It would do her no good to wander aimlessly in the woods. From the road there were now many paths to take, and unless she by luck found his tracks there was little way of knowing where to go. In the end she decided. If she was right – and he was hunting the strange creature – then surely all things evil would seek out like-minded kin. She would follow the banks of the Anduin south, through forests and marshes, hoping to hear news of a lone Ranger spotted in the wild. Even if it took her as far as the Black Gate.

With the full light of morning she mounted. The weather changed again, and the turning wind brought the clouds north-west until they vanished beyond the peaks of the mountain. The sky was opened, high and blue, and as she stood upon the hill side, ready to depart, a pale sunlight gleamed over the snow. She thanked the Valar for allowing her to pass through the night, unscathed, and tried not to think of how badly it could all have turned. She could feel the sunlight heating her skin, fighting off the cold that had long rested in her body.

Rell pulled her horse forward, carefully descending as often stones and snow rolled down ahead of them. While Luin remained constant, treading through the knee-high snow, the Ranger watched the cliffs and edges with vigilance. Although there had been no sign of orcs, the horrid creatures could still be hiding in the cracks and fissures, and her bow was ready to meet them.

As it would turn out, her concerns were unfounded, and she reached the foothills of the mountain without difficulty. From there she could press on at a greater pace, and she spurred Luin forward. It was not yet evening when she reached the first copse of trees, and the land turned green. The oaks were wretched and gnarled, twisted in the biting winds that often swept across the lands from the west. But soon the branches grew thick, intertwined, so that a cover was formed above her head and she moved on in shadow.

She had reached the great forest, following for many miles the banks of the Anduin. The Great River of Wilderland flowed from its source in the Grey Mountains to Belegaer, the deep seas in the south, and the current was ever strong and turbulent. While Rell only skirted the edge of the forest, setting a swift and direct course, she could still hear the roaring waters ever so often, carried by the wind over the treetops.

The blue sky faded, for the day was drawing to its end, and cold stars were glinting in the sky high above the sunset.

With a bit of searching she found a dell, not far into the woods, and in the most sheltered and lowest corner she prepared to camp for the night. There were many branches to be found on the forest floor, and it was not long before Rell could start a small, and much welcomed, fire. The trail of smoke wove into the growing gloom, while she sat close by the heat and ate a little of her food. She was aware of her great hunger, for she had not eaten much in the last few days, but she touched only little – saving the rest for the long journey.

Rell would have to look for berries and roots soon, but she also had to make haste. There would be little time to resupply along the road if she hoped to catch her uncle. The cold increased as darkness came on. Beyond the dell the grey land was now vanishing quickly into shadow. There were no sounds, except an occasional beast scampering through the undergrowth in search of prey. She huddled round the fire, wrapped tightly in her cloak, while memories of the blizzard came back to her. She wondered how long the chill would haunt her.

The cloak made her blend in to one with her surroundings, rested against a large bole and with her sword at hand. As night fell, the light of the fire began to shine out brightly, and it would easily be spotted by those who knew how to look; but she allowed it to burn until it was but embers in the ash, for she needed heat. Despite the chill long subsiding, the icy touch of _Hithaeglir_ clung to her. In the very marrow of her bones, cold hands clasping tightly; unwilling to let go.

With only little sleep that night, she was greeted by the cold and clear dawn, and the promise of another day on the lonely road.

She ate very little before departing.

One day soon passed into another, and another followed after. Rell grew weary, uncertain about her road, and advanced only slowly. She had to pick a way through a pathless country, encumbered by fallen trees and tumbled rocks, through wide-stretching plains of grass and dust. There were no settlements in this region; Elves kept to their strongholds, in Imladris and Lórien, while Men had never ventured this far north and stayed. Without Luin, her only other company was that of birds – dark shadows, as great swarms carved through the skies.

It was her third day after passing the Misty Mountains when the weather turned wet. Fine drenching rain fell throughout the day, and by nightfall, while setting up a cheerless camp, she was soaked. Rell could not get a fire to burn. That night she camped on a stony shelf with a rock-wall behind her, and only in the morning had the rain stopped. The wind was shifting again, but the clouds were still thick. Pale strips of blue appeared, though most was grey and dull. She lit a fire to dry, and she ate the last of the bread and cheese.

When she looked out, she saw a faint trail glittered in the rising sun, silver cutting through green.

The river ahead was short, its mouth somewhere to the west where it sprung from the Misty Mountains, and it was by then a welcome sight. She now knew where she was. It would be a day's journey before the Anduin would turn, and she would reach the Undeeps. From there it was the open plains, realm of the Horse-lords; here she hoped to hear news, for her uncle had often visited the green steppes of Rohan and it was the quickest road to the Dark Lands.

She finished her meal and went on her way.

The rest of that day was spent scrambling over rocky ground, and often she would find the path barred by ridges of high land; bare points like teeth, and she had little choice but to go back and around. While climbing on to a narrow saddle between two higher points, she saw the lands fall steeply away and the river clearly visible in the valley below; they went down the southern side of the ridge, and before long Rell was able to ride again.

When she reached the Gladden River, the sun was high and shone down through half-striped clouds, and lit the path with bright patches of light. While slowly guiding Luin through the waters, searching for sure footings between slippery stones, her mind wandered. Not many miles east, where a wilderness of marshes and wetlands formed by the meeting of two rivers, an ambush took place long ago. It was there that Isildur, and his three oldest sons, met their end.

The story was told in speculation, for the body of the great king had never been found.

She wetted her lips, glancing down into the shimmering waters. A heron startled from hiding between withered bulrushes, large wings flapping across the still surface before vanishing into the forest. What had become of the High King of the Two Kingdoms? He, who had cut off the Ring of Power; defeated the Terrible Enemy?

Beyond the river she found the clear beginnings of a path, that climbed with many windings out of the hills and thinning woodlands; in places it was choked with fallen stones and trees, faint and overgrown, and it appeared seldomly used. As it provided the easiest way, Rell followed it, but she remained wary, knowing not who had once trotted the path before her.

There was still far to the nearest outpost of Men, at least from what she had been taught and the maps she knew, and the path grew ever broader as she went along. She found old trees had been cut or broken down, heaved aside, and if not for the signs of abandonment she would have turned from the path by then. It was too wide to have been made by her kind.

Again, her hand rested on the hilt of her sword, at the ready.

But Rell found no enemies on the road, and soon the river lay far behind her and the forest thinned. She looked back. Through an opening in the trees she caught a glimpse of the clear waters, but then she turned away. Now open plains stretched further than the eye could see, the green becoming one with the horizon. There was nothing between her and the woods of Lórien, nested between the south-eastern end of the Misty Mountains and the great river Anduin, when she spurred Luin to a quicker trot.

It was less than a day before the tall trees came fully into view ahead.

The area was relatively safe, guarded by the grey-cloaked marchwardens from flets high in the trees, and seldom any beast or man ventured close in fear of the White Lady. Though neither would she; for Galadriel, Mistress of Magic, saw many things and knew the minds of many. She could not risk being send back, with an escort of Elves close at hand, making sure she returned properly. Instead she finally steered east, approaching the great and wild river; with a last look she watched the dark edge of the forest, where even in the waning light an ethereal glow hung over the trees of old.

It was a beautiful warning, and within the shadowed realm all enemies would be met with a swift and painful death.

She pulled the cloak over her head, hoping any scouts would see her as nothing more than a common Ranger passing by their lands. Then, with the sun sinking behind the mist-covered mountains, and as the shadows were deepening in the woods, she carried on in to the thickets where dusk had already gathered. Night came beneath the trees as Luin brought her further from Lórien.

Suddenly she came into the open again, and Rell found herself under a pale evening sky prickled by a few early stars high above. There was a wide treeless space before her, and here the grass turned to muddy riverbanks; reeds grew in dense clusters, and the wide river – mindful of none – rolled lazily by, bending and twisting between boulders and rocks.

There was no path to follow; instead she steered her horse between ancient boles and young saplings, between gnarled roots and fallen trees, keeping the Anduin on her left. As the night deepened, more lights sprang forth in the sky, and she watched them reflected on the waters. Diamonds on the blank surface, flickering with every slow wave lapping against the shores. The breeze died away and the river flowed without a sound; no bird nor beast broke the silence.

Rell carried on for a few dark, quiet hours, but then she looked for a place to rest. A sharp bend in the river, flanked by tall reeds, was where she set up camp; small fowls whistled and pipped in malcontent between the reeds, before they fled across the waters with wings flapping. Rings on the surface spread, then stilled once more. She lit no fire that night, for she had passed beyond the borders of Elves. They did not venture so far east, and the Men of the Riddermark had little business so far from their homes. This was orc-land.

So she made do with berries, wild and sour, then lay down for the night. For a while she listened and watched the stars, but there were no signs of living things. The steady river was a constant companion, lapping against the muddy banks, and the rustling and swaying reeds lulled her into a fretful sleep. The night passed without event; morning came bright and clear. Setting out, sharp-eyed and rested, days blurred into one until the country began to change rapidly.

The banks began to rise and grow stony. Soon she passed through a hilly rock-land, and the shores turned to steep slopes of thorn and brambles, making her path all the more difficult. It was not long before crumbling cliffs and dark, weathered stones forced her to turn from the river; once more turning sharply to the south. Every day she scoured the ground below, the branches on the bushes; smelled the air and watched the sky for trails of smoke; turned stones that looked out of place for hidden messages, but never did she find signs of her uncle.

Often she would dismount and survey the ground, then leap back into the saddle; ride for some distance, then again she would dismount and examine the ground, going backwards and forward on foot. But never was there much to discover. The trails she found were confusing, and mostly stepped by animals, some leading off to the great river and others out of the forest.

While the blizzard had delayed her some, surely, she could not be so far behind? Not with the pace she had set, and the distance she had covered; and so doubt began to bloom in her mind, a small seed growing with every day that passed. _Have I missed him? Taken a wrong turn?_ As if to mirror her bleak mood, the weather turned dull and grey. The mornings were chilly and overcast, coverings of dark clouds stealing away her light. The certainty she had felt, both in Rivendell and in the Angle, was slowly chipped away by hesitation.

Had she been wrong?

Still, she carried on. The woods began to thin once more, giving way to places green with wide plains of grass. Rolling meadows, and far beyond she saw the contoured ridges of hills in the sunrise of the morning. Rell kept to the shadowed cover of trees, only skirting the plains, but as the day grew a thick and heavy fog swathed the undergrowth. Ahead, Rell knew, she would soon be met with another river; where the Limlight emptied into the Anduin, a large area of fens and wetlands cut off her path and forced her from her set road.

She was not pleased, but neither would she venture into the bog when there was another way around. Turning south-west, she at last in the afternoon reached the eaves of the forest; ahead were highlands, gentle and rolling hills with tall grass. The world here lay still, formless as green flowed over the wide-open plains of Rohan. Far to the west stood the Misty Mountains, blue and purple peaks rising with tips of glimmering snow. It was many days since she had trudged through the high snow and fought off the chill of the storm.

The sky was pale and blue when she pulled Luin into a fast trot. The grass was tall enough to brush against her feet, bending softly beneath the animal, and they shot across the plains in a blur of grey. Morning turned to noon; soon the sun climbed and then rode slowly down the sky. Light clouds came up out of the sea in the distant South, and a breeze swept across her face. Biting and fresh.

Rell drew her horse to a halt as a smell came to her on the wind.


	4. Blood in the Air

Her eyes flickered across the hilly plains, attentive and alert, for there was something in the air; Luin, too, could scent it, and the animal tripped skittishly on the dusty ground. _Blood._ She moved again, this time with slow deliberation as her hands pulled the bow from her back. When she approached, the smell became pungent and heavy, even more so as she climbed a ridge on horseback. The wide and rugged shelf ended suddenly in the brink of a sheer cliff, but gave a good view over the dale below.

The green plains of the Rohirrim stretched away before her to the edge of sight, though it was something white that caught her gaze just below the cliff. Turning down, at the bottom she found the source of the smell. Four large animals protruded from the grass, stripped from most meat, and the guts were strewn across the surrounding field; their bones white in the sun, broken and torn apart. She dismounted quickly and crouched at the carcasses, while her eyes swept across the area. _These are not deer_ , she thought with a frown. The animals were too large, almost thrice the size of a normal buck; Rell hovered a hand over the closest remains, feeling a faint, lingering heat.

The kills were still fresh.

Next, she looked at the tracks surrounding the animals, and what she came across sent a chill down her spine. Many footfalls had trampled the grass, telling her that a great number had passed by not long ago; they wore boots, but were travelling light for the dirt was barely touched or flattened in their wake. There were no signs of a fire, and likely they had avoided any attention with smoke or flames by eating the meat raw.

Then she found the first head, milky-white eyes looking into nothing, thrown away when the animals had been slain. They were horses. Her concern turned to dread, for not far from the carnage she came across a well-kept saddle of dark leather as well as a dagger, its hilt decorated with small figures on horse-back. She turned the blade over in her hands.

It was little comfort that she did not find the bodies of the riders, knowing well they would either be held as captives or lay dead elsewhere in the fields. Rell stepped to the edge of the circle of flattened grass, where likely the large group had set up camp, and searched their path; they had come from the west, now heading further over the plains south-east into the Eastemnet. Rell imagined them to be Wild Men, passing close to the forest of old and raiding any village or settlement they came across – but how had they passed the Fords of Isen unseen? Covered more than a hundred miles through Rohan, without encountering armed resistance?

_They should not have come this far ..._

There was no uncertainty in her choice, for it could barely be called a choice; she called Luin to her and swung into the saddle, then followed the tracks across the hills while her attention was fixed on the horizon. Her pursuit brought her swiftly over many leagues, over the wide solitude and her cloak faded against the background of grey-green fields. The track led straight on, without break or turn until a thin, barely visible, line of smoke trailing through the air caught her attention. A white thread against the deepening blue.

Dismounting once more and giving a soft order for her horse to remain, knowing well something was ahead, she carefully climbed the hilltop; bending down to peer over its edge. A fire had raged previously, but now only toppled ruins of a large farmstead remained; soot-covered and blackened beams and stones lay in great piles, as the house had partly crumbled. The thatched roof of the stables was smoking still.

She circled the buildings, keeping to the top of the hill to secure a lookout both ahead and back, and here she found the track continued on; but it was split in two, one larger party heading straight south and another, she figured no more than a dozen men at most, parted from the group and veered north-east again. Her brow furrowed at the sight, attempting to key together her findings. No maps she had gone through showed much of the region, except for the larger settlements close to the fortress of Aldburg. She could not imagine a host of Wild Men would be foolish enough to attack such a stronghold.

Rell then slipped down the slope, hidden in the tall grass and constantly on the look-out for stragglers.

The house appeared to have been abandoned, and the Dunlendings had continued on with their march, leaving only rubble and destruction in their wake.

But she found something else instead.

Rell whispered a soft prayer to the Valar, head lowered and hands clenched, when she finally found the missing riders. They lay in the dry and short turf, hewn with many cruel strokes, and the ground was wetted with their blood. Their armour had been stripped from them, piled and burned. The heads looked with unseeing glazed eyes from tall wooden stakes where they had been speared, mouths agape and helmets thrown aside, and she only looked at them briefly before diverting her gaze. Her stomach churned at the smells.

The sight chilled her heart. It took her a few long moments before she approached the house, now searching with little hope for the farmer that had lived there, and for his family, though she knew well their fate had likely been just as cruel. Smoke was heavy in the air, dark and curling with every gust of wind, and she pressed a hand to her mouth. Her other hand found the hilt of her sword, ready to draw it from its sheath.

Stepping into the house, careful of beams and broken stones, she first came across the farmer. Blond hair was matted in blood, and he had been cut down in a single stroke not far from the door. An axe, meant for cutting wood and not bones, lay by his hand. Unused. She did not check if he was yet alive, for the crimson pool told her much. Chairs, tables; everything was broken and tossed about, as if done for no reason but to destroy in evil and resentful, old malice.

When she then came across the farmer's wife, Rell swiftly turned away and swallowed back bile. The woman was dead, that much was certain, but the attackers had not been swift; her clothes were torn, skirts hitched over her legs, and it had not been a sword that ended her life. Hands and nails were caked in darkened blood, and she had likely fought against her attackers; clawing and kicking until the very end.

Rell fled the house, seeking clean air to calm her mind.

Heaving for breath, she settled her gaze on the white clouds drifting overhead, and Rell felt hot-boiling anger welling up inside her stomach. Burning and clear. What had they done to deserve such an end? Whistling a shrill and short tune, Luin appeared on the ridge, neighing, and the horse trotted up to her side with dust trailing behind; with nostrils wide, the clever animal could smell not only the butchery, but also its rider's darkening mood.

"You and I," Rell started, attempting to still her wavering voice that shook when she spoke. She pressed her forehead against the soft and warm muzzle, then breathed deeply to calm her fast-beating heart. "We will get them for this."

As she was about to climb into the saddle, a noise – barely discernible over the small crackles and pops of still-burning logs – caught her attention. It was faint, soon vanished once more into silence, but she had heard it nonetheless. Rell looked out over the yard, attempting to determine the root of the sound; an unnatural silence lay over the razed house, grating on her ears. The sound had been a scrape, like iron dragging on stone.

"Friend or foe – come forward now, and I shall not raise my weapon against you unless you bare yours!" She called out, voice resounding in the quiet, yet no answer came. Then she walked with slow, deliberate, steps over the dust ground towards the buildings; attentively listening for another sound to mark her target, her instincts telling her she was not alone. The main house had been checked, finding only death inside, and so her eyes fell upon the stables. She pushed aside fallen boards between thick layers of ash, discovering rounded stones below. They echoed hollow as she tapped them with her sword.

She crouched, now carefully searching the ground for openings. While Rell still remained watchful, she no longer expected to encounter any Wild Men, but rather scared survivors of the raid. They could still prove dangerous, for in their fear they could not know if they attacked an enemy before it would prove too late. A soft shuffle, muffled, ran like a tremor through the stones, and Rell was now certain.

Standing up, she spoke again. "I am a Ranger of the North, and I am not here to hurt you." As she gazed over the ground, Rell became aware that there was now a stir and movement; a scraping sound rang shrill, as ash and soot fell through emerging cracks that ran over the floor. The hatch was pulled aside, and a pair of blue eyes looked at the Ranger in fear. Rell sheathed her sword immediately and held up her hands, attempting to placate the young girl. "I will not hurt you," she said carefully.

Several moments passed, where the farmer's child – no more than ten in age – watched Rell with conflicting emotions; the blonde hair was dirtied, her skin covered in soot and white lines ran down her cheeks. Streaked with tears. _She must have hid before the Wild Men noticed her,_ Rell thought, crouching to appear less frightening. Then finally, deeming the stranger to be no threat, the girl climbed out of the small basement that had saved her life. A small, wavering voice followed her up, sounding distraught and choked up, alerting Rell to another presence.

"You are not alone?" She asked.

The girl blinked, head tilting sideways, as she sat down on the floor; trembling hands wrapped around her legs, while her eyes ran across the ruins around them. Tears fell silently, but no answer came. Rell chewed her lip, wondering if the child spoke Westron, although she strongly doubted it. Repeating the question, pointing to the hatch, she finally stood and walked over; at first the girl tried to speak, words in a language Rell did not know, but then allowed the Ranger to walk closer. Peering down into the basement, she saw two tiny figures huddled together at the end of a narrow staircase. Both yelped in shock when they saw her, and the youngest burst into fresh tears.

They appeared unharmed, and had likely escaped into hiding before the attack.

Rell's gaze softened, and she motioned the girl over.

Without any other way to communicate – and she had many questions in the need of answering – she started to draw in the ashes. Rell made a rough outline of the farmstead, while pointing to the place they were sitting, then small figures of men heading in two directions. With her other hand she pointed south, then to the drawing; repeatedly, until the child understood the gesture. The girl made a long trail over the stones and finally a large building, surrounded by stick-figured horsemen. Rell assumed it to be the stronghold of Aldburg.

After doing the same, this time for the smaller host of Wild Men heading north-east, she inhaled sharply. For in their path, the girl instead drew several small houses and people; no riders, and when Rell drew a sword on one of the villagers, looking up questioningly, she shook her head. Haste was needed now. Ignoring the shriek, Rell picked up the girl and lowered her down into the small basement once more; eyes casting one last look down on the three siblings, she spoke a command they could surely understand.

" _Stay_."

Then she drew the hatch over the hole.

Rell tried to conceal the hiding place with ash and half-burnt boards, hoping it would be enough in case the Wild Men returned. At least it was no longer obvious unless one knew to look for it. When she stepped outside, the land was bathed in warmth, and it was not yet long passed midday for the sun was still high. Her heart was hammering, loudly beating in her chest, as she mounted Luin. Rell did not fear battle, but a sense of dread for the villagers made her spur her horse into a fast sprint.

Hoofs thundered over the ground, sending tufts of grass and earth soaring through the air after them.

They shot across the plains, through the tall grass and over small creaks; the land was green, and in the wet meadows grew many willow-trees. But despite the beauty of the land, there was a chill in the air that made her press on with ever growing need. How far ahead were the Dunlendings? Would she arrive too late? Ever so often she watched the tracks, following them carefully, making sure she would not miss a sudden turn, but at the same time she also kept a keen watch on the rolling hills.

A smell of burning was in the air, and Luin grew uneasy beneath her. A great weight of dread settled on her, and time seemed poised in uncertainty. She was too late. "With haste, Luin!" The horse sprang away, hoofs beating against the ground, as Rell drew the bow from her back. Wisps of grey-white smoke rose into the air, and when the Ranger approached, screams and shouts blew on the wind to meet her.

Despite the fast approaching battle, a calmness fell over her – beaten into her through years of practice. Ready, _poised_ so that no mistake would hinder her nor risk her life. Luin's muscles tensed as Rell released the reins, instead pulling back the bowstring. She exhaled, then released the arrow and watched it carve through the air. The look-out on the hilltop tumbled down the slope, dead, before he had a chance to shout a warning for his comrades.

A dark arrow jutted out from below his mandible, blood spluttering through the dark filtered beard.

The horse sprang past the Dunlending, climbing the hill swiftly, and now Rell had a clear look over the village. Fires were blazing, roaring to life as thatched roofs fed the wild flames; terror rose up to greet her, panic and screams, as her gaze attempted to gauge the extent of the battle. Several villagers lay slain in the streets, yet chaos was ongoing. Another arrow was released, and the string whirred by her ear; but still Luin rode on, mane rolling and whipping about in its speed. Arrow upon arrow sang through the air, and three Wild Men lay dead before Rell reached the first burning houses.

With the sun in her back, blindingly clear, she managed to kill one more before they spotted her.

Shouts of alarm brought their attention to her. The faces of her enemies were now drawn upon her, but Rell did not blench. Soon after, she was forced to put aside her bow, finding the hilt of her sword instead, for the Wild Men sought cover behind walls and fences. Arrows became useless. But the weight in her hand was calming on her nerves.

There were cries in the air, and among them the harsh voices of an unfamiliar language; barking orders, and her quick ears caught heavy footfalls around her.

Surrounding, blocking her escape.

Rell dropped swiftly out of the saddle and shouted a command. " _Maetha_ , Luin!" The horse tore off, and the Ranger drew her sword. It rang hollow in the sudden silence, the world holding a deep breath before a storm's release; her feet shifted over the ground, drawing up clouds of dust, while her gaze flickered over her surroundings. _Soon ..._

Dark smoke blew across the streets, twisting and obscuring her vision; she flexed her hand over the hilt, breathing quiet and calm, but she knew it would not be long now. The weight shifted to her legs, prepared for the first strike, though she was not sure from where it would fall. A dog was barking loudly, snarls weaving between the buildings.

Movement from the corner of her eye flashed, and a jagged blade hissed past her chest. Rell whirled around, blocking the attack with her own sword and a dull, metal clang trembled up her arm. She allowed the blow to slide by, twisting out her free arm, and levelled a hit across the Dunlending's temple with as much force as she could muster.

Stumbling and disoriented, momentarily put out of the fight, he fell to the ground. Rell could turn her attention on to the next; she drew blood, cutting deeply into flesh. Warm droplets flecked her face, but she had immediately moved on and returned to the first attacker, knowing well her blow had been clean. The sword sank into the soft tissue below the ribs, grating against bones, and he slumped down, lifeless.

She was glad there was very little order between the Wild Men, for clearly she was outnumbered if they charged all at once. No more came openly at her. Carefully moving around the corner of a building, wiping blood from her face and eyes, she followed the sound of anguished screams. Urging her forward with haste. Rell could no longer hear barking. Animals lay dead in the streets and in their enclosures; horses and sheep cut down and gutted.

A loud scuffle welled up from without the nearest house, accompanied by pleas and cries.

Rell passed through the broken-down door, but recoiled swiftly. Pain erupted where the blade met her arm, stalling the man's attack, and jolting tendrils ran down her arm to her fingers. Numbing. She cursed and fell back into the open yard. Finding her footings, turning the sword in her hand, she met the second blow; she held the blade even, a perfect, undaunted horizon. Second nature, as her uncle had taught her.

He hissed something in his dark, guttural language; yellowed teeth bared in a grin, and they stood close enough for Rell to smell his breath. Rotten and putrid. She drew back, swung her sword to meet his, and, with his attention on her, the other free hand found the smaller knife in her belt. It slit the great vein in his neck, and air wheezed through gaping lips as he drew his last pungent breath.

Pulling back the blade and stepping aside, Rell looked into the house.

A woman, clothes torn, clutched a small bundle tightly, huddling together in a corner of the room. Fearful eyes met hers, but both mother and child appeared unharmed. She pressed a hand to her wound, wincing, and felt a warm dampness soaking through the fabric; then the Ranger returned to her duty. The wound could be dressed later.

Even if it stung horribly.

The villagers had put up a fight, and Rell came across several bodies of the Wild Men. Tangled dark hair, coarse leathers and wools, and weapons caked in rust. The fires grew in strength, and the heat made beads of sweat trickle down her brow; she could taste salt and iron in her mouth. Dust and ash. Her eyes watered and her vision blurred.

Reflex kicked in and she ducked back, creating a distance between herself and the figure that had sprung out through the smoke. The man dashed at her, attempting to knock her over, but Rell swung her sword in a wide arch. He stumbled, and she made a grab for his shirt; balling the cloth between her fingers, she slammed her other elbow into his ear.

She forced his head back, intending to sweep his legs out from beneath him, when something hard collided with her shoulder. Pain bloomed, numbing her grip and the man staggered back. A quick glance back revealed a burly figure holding a wooden club in his hands, raising it again to strike. Knuckles white over the hilt, struggling to keep her hold on her weapon, she weakly blocked the blow.

For a moment she was unguarded, muscles screaming in effort, and if her enemy's weapon had not been so heavy, she knew well the danger that could have been. She shoved into him with great force, knocking them both down, and her sword slipped from her aching hand. Outnumbered, and she had now lost both her footing and her weapon. He was larger and stronger, and the grasp on her was iron; her mind had not forgotten the second man, knowing well the blow would not keep him dazed for long.

Rell felt neither pride nor shame, for this was not honourable combat – this was a struggle to win and to live. Baring her teeth, she dug into the thin skin; tearing flesh and tissue, warm blood pooled into her mouth. She fought back a choke. He howled and trashed, landing several blows to her back to throw her off, but finally he lessened his own grip and she stumbled away. Scraping over rocks, fumbling to hold on to her sword, she whistled sharply.

Luin came thundering down the road, an unstoppable and wild force, summoned by the earlier command.

They had trained the maneuver many times; the horse skirting the perimeter of a battle, at the ready to attack when needed. The dazed Dunlending had little chance to react before he was crushed below the large animal, trampled under hoofs, and while Rell turned to her own adversary it was to the sound of breaking bones. Shock was apparent on the man's feral face, astonished, but she did not hesitate. She could not afford to.

Finding strength in her grip, twisting the hilt, Rell retaliated. Blinking in surprise, hands fumbling around the blade now buried in his guts, his eyes slowly grew clouded. Fading. Blood pooled around him, soaking into the dry ground and turned it crimson, but soon the body lay still. Staggering to her feet, Rell withdrew her sword and called Luin to her side.

She did not need to look at the other man.

With ears flat and tail flickering, the horse walked to her side; nostrils flaring before the large, warm head burrowed against her shoulder. She rubbed the rough coat, feeling the heartbeat pounding strongly, and she soothed her steed quietly. "Thank you for your help, Luin." Rell looked into the large brown eyes. "You saved me." But there was little time to calm her uneasy companion, not when there were still screams in the air.

The fire raged on. Running her palm over her horse's forehead, gently, she allowed it to return to the hills. Then she ran further into the village, passing buildings and stables; carts and stacks of hay, turned over and devoured by large flames, and the air was heavy with smoke. Turning a corner, Rell startled to a halt as she came face to face with a group of men. They raised their weapons – pitchforks, axes, and one large greatsword – against her.

"Wait!" Rell cried, stepping back quickly with both arms raised. "I am here to help."

The one brandishing the sword stepped forward, towering a great deal over her, as he surveyed her keenly. His feet were planted firmly apart, and the hand gripped the handle with practiced familiarity; light-blue eyes flashed. Her own grip tightened on the hilt, but she would not draw it on them – they were men of Rohan, and they were not her enemy. "Who are you, and what are you doing in this land?" He asked, using the Common Speech of the West, but in a manner and tone indicating he knew very little of the language.

His companions stood restlessly glancing about, huddled together with weapons close, and she knew the large man to be the leader who had rallied them. He looked to be the only warrior in the group. But his sword was old, unsharpened, and he had likely not used it in a long time. The wound pulsed as she gripped her own weapon tighter.

Farmers protecting their lands.

Rell pointed to the clasp at her neck, to the six-pointed star, and then motioned to their surroundings. "I came out of the North. I was passing through when I came upon the Wild Men's trails, and I decided to follow." Then she drew her blade, coated in crimson, and held it up for them to see. "There is little time, but know that I am on your side. Now, please, lead the way to battle."

He watched her a moment longer, but then nodded gruffly, leading them through a narrow passage between two houses.

Shouts in the Dunland tongue ricocheted between the walls, growing loud and pressing, and as they entered the open square beyond they were met with a large group of Wild Men. Behind them Rell saw several villagers; gathered together and tied up, many bleeding and beaten badly. There was little time for Rell to orientate herself, for all around her people leaped into the fray with cries and shouts.

Rell was weary and tired when she blocked the first blow, stumbling under its weight, and the wound on her arm pulsed.

Her stamina was soon spent. But while the blow numbed the senses in her hand, she twisted and kicked out her leg. As she made contact, beating the air from his lungs, her attacker dropped to the ground. Her next attack followed swiftly, shattering his nose and knocking him unconscious. Heaving for air, crouching down on her knees, Rell attempted to catch her breath. A taste of iron filled her mouth.

Warmth trickled down her arm. The wound had opened further, and she felt light-headed and dizzy.

_Advance_ , her mind urged her forward, _advance._

Shadows danced over the ground, whirling up dust and blood; blades clanking and hissing, carving through air and bone, and Rell staggered to her feet. The fight was not over. Children were crying and screaming. The armed Rohirrim had pressed on, holding their own against the Dunlendings, but several on both sides lay dead on the ground.

Rell put aside the ever growing pain in her body, taking a step forward. Then another. Exhaled, inhaled, as her eyes came into focus on everything around her. Drawing the smaller blade from her belt, turning it over, she threw the knife at a nearby Wild Man before quickly following it herself; raising her sword to strike despite her muscles' screams of agony.

The head landed with a hollow thud, rolling away, as the body collapsed to the ground. She retrieved the knife from his back, wrestling it loose, then jumped to help one of the Rohirrim fighting alone against two. Time was lost to her, hacking and slashing, as the world became painted in red; her eyes stung from dark smoke, breathing ragged, and her ears rang from every blow she had taken.

But then, at last, it was over.

Rell sheathed her sword, then slumped down onto the hard ground as her legs caved. She stank of sweat and blood, her hands trembled, and she felt like throwing up. For a while she sat and shivered; clenching and unclenching her hands to gauge the damage, but finally she carefully pried away the sleeve of her tunic. It burned, as the matted blood made the fabric cling to the cut. But Rell knew how to handle a wound; the quicker she was, the less damage it would be.

And so, biting her teeth together, she uncovered the still bleeding gash despite the pain.

To her great relief, the cut did not run deep, and she did not fear any permanent damage as only little blood oozed out. The blow had missed her tendons. Another scar, but both arm and fingers would work fine in time. She brushed aside strands of hair from her face, undone from the braid during the fight, and her fingers stilled against her brow. Her body felt as if on fire, and it was hard to find even one place that did not hurt.

The uninjured men were quick at work, searching for villagers and putting out the fires, and soon the square was a mesh of people. Nearly twenty Dunlendings lay dead, several more than she had expected from the trails, and they were laden on waggons with little care to be hauled off. But nearly the same amount of Rohirrim had been killed. It was a sad hour, filled with anguished cries as men and women found their loved ones, and Rell could do no more than watch.

_If only I had arrived sooner_ , she thought with a heavy and disheartened mind, _how many more could have been saved?_

The pillars of smoke rose high into the air before the wind caught hold of it; dark birds were drawn in by the smell of blood and death, now watching with beady eyes from the rooftops. But still the westering sun gleamed, painting the blue sky in vivid colours, and a peaceful silence had settled over the lands. Luin answered her call, and soon after the horse stood faithfully by her side. Waiting calmly.

Water was drawn from wells, and Rell washed and cleaned her wound; it stung, but soon she had dressed it with clean linen and herbs – fine-grounded athelas from her satchel. While she had not learnt much of the healing arts, unlike her uncle, the sweet-smelling herb eased her pain still. Only few noticed the lone Ranger, sitting off to the side, for they were deep in their own grief and spared little thought on anything else. Rell leaned against the wall of a building, closing her eyes for a moment as exhaustion spread throughout her body.

Her head pounded, and the taste of iron lingered in her mouth.

She ran her tongue over her teeth, making sure none had come loose during the fight.

But it was not yet the hour for rest, and despite her throbbing head and aching muscles, Rell returned to her feet. There were still many in need of aid, with deep gashes and injuries that would likely claim lives throughout the day. She found the wounded had been laid in long rows on the ground, a smell of vomit and blood heavy in the air. Groans and sobs. Walking down the line, seeing most had been cared for to some extent, she kneeled down beside a young man; he had a gash across the side of his head, inexpertly bandaged, and blood oozed sluggishly out.

Dark crimson trails ran down his forehead and over his eyes, pinched together in fevered delirium. Rell carefully began to unwrap the stained linens, glancing about for someone to fetch water to clean the wound. Her hands soon became sticky with warm blood, stroking away the matted blond hair. He moaned, fingers fretting as they opened and closed.

When finally a crock of warm water was brought to her, she cleaned the wound to her best ability and pressed the crushed herbs into the gash. Then she wrapped a fresh bandage around his head, making sure to apply enough pressure to still the bleeding. Rell did not linger, for her presence could do no more for the boy, and instead she passed on to the next one in the line. She moved from blood encrusted cuts to broken limbs. Bones shining pale below torn muscle. In no time at all, Rell had used up her supply of athelas; but with the light waning, most of the injured had been helped inside the houses for the night.

Her work was at long last done.

Rell wiped her brow but managed only to smear dried blood across her skin, looking out over the square to the men remaining in an attempt to find the warrior from earlier. She called for Luin, grabbing the horse by the reins, and pulled it along with her. Following the trail where the Rohirrim had hauled off the Dunlendings, she found a large fire taking shape over the first hills; a great valley lay beyond and further, in the deepening shadows, unending stretches of land was all she could see until her gaze reached the horizon.

The corpses were piled onto the wood with little care, and soon all-devouring flames were lit about them.

He was not hard to find between lean farmers, for his large and muscled body stood out rather prominently. Rell stepped closer, finding her voice that had long been unused. "Have you any men that can ride out?" She asked, drawing his attention to her and away from the flames. "There is danger still. A larger host of Wild Men are heading south as we speak."

"How come you know of this?" He said.

"I found their trail not far from here," she said and pointed in the direction of where she had found the burnt-down farmstead. Her glove was coated in darkening patches of blood, stark against the green fields and the blue of the sky. Her head was pounding, heavy with exhaustion and the dull throb of her injuries. "Surely a warning must be sent out, before it is too late."


	5. An Unwarranted Attack

Another day of riding and a night of journey had fleeted by. The cold dawn was at hand again, and chill grey mists were about them as they broke camp; they had rested their horses only briefly, and now they were ready to set out once more. His horse stood steaming with cold perspiration, but Firefoot held its neck proudly and showed no sign of weariness. Many tall men were mounted behind him, heavy cloaks drawn about them as they awaited orders, and their spears gleamed sharply in the dim light of the distantly rising sun.

"My lord." A voice broke the silence, and he looked back to the rider at his side. Gloved fingers tightened against the reins. "Is it not the hour to depart?"

Behind, the heavy mist swallowed up most of his riders, but the ever-present breathing and stamping of hoofs welled up between the hills. An ever-growing echo. They had skirted the banks of the Entwash, first following the swift-flowing river as it left the old forest of Fangorn; deeply carven into the stones and land, and further still as the flow became sluggish. Languid and chuckling. The grasslands gave way to brackish fens, and a stark smell permeated the air. They were far from home and hearth, and had been for a long time now.

But the Emnets were growing increasingly dangerous, for fel creatures crept down from the mountains, and from the west the Dunlendings became bolder; patrolling was important, if not more than ever, even if it kept his men from their homes and families. It was a dull and disheartening task, but also a mantle he had welcomed with pride.

For a while he sat silent in the saddle, pensive, but at last he spoke. "We will ride the straight way east. Call the heralds."

He put on his helmet.

Then he went out, and behind him trumpets rang out in the mists, answered by many calls and shouts. Thundering over the wide flats beside the noisy river, he led his riders onward down the grey road. Swiftly following their lord in pairs, two hundred strong. His heart felt heavy, thoughts of better days – now long gone – haunting his waking hours, and always he was burdened with great concerns. The voices of counsellors whispered promises of peace in the King's ear, and the people of Edoras, so far from the wilderness, knew very little of the dangers surrounding them.

Two swift hours passed, and they rode on through meads and riverlands. Often the grass was so high that it reached above the knees of the riders, and their steeds seemed to be swimming in a grey-green sea. They knew the lands well, skirting around hidden pools and treacherous bogs. Taking the fastest way over the lands. Firefoot found the way, and the other horses followed in his swath.

Looking out over the plains he saw the climbing sun, red tendrils across a clouded sky, low upon the edge of sight. A bitter chill clung still to the air, and a wind swept across their path, rushing through bent grasses. But soon morning was bright and clear about them, and birds were singing in the meadows, and he wished the tranquil world was not so fleeting. So easily broken by war. So soon, Autumn was to pass, and the bitterness of Winter blew with increasing strength.

The riders climbed and descended rolling hills, making easy marks against the pale sky if not for their great numbers, and his grip on the spear was ever vigilant. Ready. An unease hung heavy in the air, for their scouts had not returned from their patrol through the night. They were good men, and he prayed to the Valar that his fears would be but horrid thoughts with no claim to reality. But there was a sinking feeling in his chest.

At that moment a shadow fell over him, and he looked up to see a large bird swoop down over the riders; wings beating, before it was borne away north on the wind. It was gone again. "A carrion bird," said his squire, risen in his stirrups as he gazed after the shadow. Deep brows set in thought.

Then they carried on.

Day came about them, and the sun blinked over the lifeless hillocks, yet still the sight of the dark bird gnawed at his mind. He turned his eyes every so often northward, over the sundering leagues of land; far away he gazed, to the edge of sight where thin stripes of cloud grew into one with a red-tinted haze. Unease bore his thoughts still further on, beyond the dimness and to the open fields of the Eastemnet.

The host rode on, driven by need, and with all the speed they could muster. The steeds of Rohan were swift and enduring, and seldom they paused in their vigilant watch. Though he could not see it, he knew that beyond the haze there was a growing darkness, as if a great storm was moving out of the East. Brooding, a shadow creeping ever closer, and their people had only few allies left to help ward off the storm. The light was in his eyes, turning all the rolling fields of Rohan to gold, and the clouds waned.

Outcrops of beech trees littered the land, between large boulders of hard rock, and there were not many settlements to be found in the region. Herdsmen lived a nomadic existence on the fields of the Eastemnet, driving their great herds across the grasslands as they followed the seasons. But it had been a long while since they had last passed such a camp, let alone any other people, and it worried him greatly.

He drew up his hand, and without a word or cry, the riders halted.

There was a silence in the empty fields, and he could hear the air sighing through the grass and stone-crevices. "Éothain," he called, and his squire drew closer. "We will not go further east, but northward from this point. There is something not right about these lands." He could see the wonder in the man's eyes, but never would his decision be argued. "Send Alger and Bana ahead to Aldburg with word, let them know we shall soon be returning."

His orders were carried out swiftly, and two riders parted from the host; disappearing into the grey mists, while the rest swerved away north-bound. They carried on for several hours, yet nothing caught his attention that could explain his unease, and cold morning turned to noon. The sun rose out of the haze, sending golden beams down upon the scattered trees and glades about them. The wind had died.

Ahead, dark smoke rose in thin curling threads.

Shouts welled up as others noticed the trailing spirals against the blue-grey sky.

With increasing speed, they pressed on towards the fire, and he called for scouts to ride ahead. He spurred Firefoot, grip tight on the reins. Further, covering another five leagues, the vanguard returned with haste. They had spotted a black speck in the distance. A horseman riding back towards them; they halted and awaited him, spears and bows now at the ready, for they all knew a battle was close at hand.

He came, a young and weary man; caked blood marred his face, and slowly he climbed from his horse and stood there a while gasping. He struggled to stay on his feet. At length he spoke. "Is the Lord Éomer here?" He asked, stumbling for words in his haste as his wild gaze flickered over the Éored. "We have been attacked by wild hillmen! They razed our village, and while we drove them back a larger host has been seen heading south in the direction of Aldburg."

Urging his horse forward to meet the outrunner, the young boy's face lit up with joy and wonder.

"My lord Éomer!" He cried, then kneeled with some difficulty. His head lowered.

Éomer drew himself up in the saddle, checking Firefoot. "How long ago was this?"

"They came just before midday, and there was little we could do to defend ourselves. But they were few in numbers, for most of their forces appear to march for Aldburg, my lord. I was sent ahead to give warning before it was too late."

With his head still lowered, all seemed quiet and watchful, and the riders of his Éored listened silently; grim-faced and waiting for their lord's command. The news were grim, and anticipation was heavy in the air. "Give this man a fresh horse!" Éomer called, pulling at Firefoot's reins as his gaze was drawn to the rising smoke. "Ride back to your village – tell them that the message has been received, and we shall soon come to you with aid."

"Thank you, lord!"

The courier climbed into the saddle of the offered horse, bowed his head in farewell, and then spurred his steed. Like the arrow from a bow the great horse sprang away, but they did not spend long watching him for time was of the essence. Haste was needed now. Horns sounded across the plains, and the host turned away from the road and bent their course westward. Spears glistened in the sun. Like teeth bared at the scent of bloodshed.

Red shafts of light coloured the grey-clouded skies; the now high-risen sun was on their backs, dull and chill, and he looked once more to the trails of smoke in the distance. The dreadful feeling had been true, a premonition of something evil, yet they had arrived much too late to protect the settlement. They rode further still, watching the rolling hills and the horizon with keen eyes. Hoofs beat against the ground, resounding throughout the plains, like the rolling of thunder until drowing within the green sea.

The wind changed, harsh and savage against his face, as the light waned.

It was not long before a hurrying darkness, gathering with great speed, rushed up from the East and swallowed the sky. For a moment the air calmed, died, and all was quiet; there was a dry splitting crack of thunder, flashing across the dark and, with it, mingling with its roar, came a sudden rush. Many great droplets of water poured down on the riders, beating against their helmet and shields, obscuring their vision as if the old evils of the world had turned their eyes on them with malice.

Another crack of thunder. The rain came as a blinding sheet, bitter cold, and soon the ground turned to a slippery trail of mud. But they were men of the Riddermark. The cruel weather did little to halt their horses; while the lands were covered in shadow, he knew the hills and grasslands well. They did not falter. As he gazed, Éomer became aware that there was a great stir and movement on the distant plain before them.

Dark, crunching figures weaving through the grass some leagues away.

His men stirred. "Éothain, take your men over the other ridge!" He called over the din of trampling horses, pointing south where contoured rocks stood darkly in the grass. His voice carried by the wind, clear and sharp with order. "Flank them – but keep some alive!"

The rider raised his spear, shouted into the din, and soon thirty horses broke from the host. Éomer led the remainder of his Éored with him, taking the straight path to the Dunlendings down a slow-descending slope; the Wild Men had been alerted to their presence, and there was great movement as they huddled together to face the advancing Rohirrim. Hunting-horns rang loudly. It was not long before the riders were upon them and the horses tore into the raiders.

Splintering bones as horse met man.

Cries and screeches came, a wall of sounds that made blood thrum in his ears, but there was little to be done against heavy mail and spear, nor against the greatness of the horses. The hillmen shot all their arrows, but under the great weight of warhorses most were trampled in the onslaught. Éomer threw his spear. The riders ripped through the group with ease. The line held on up the hill, and then they wheeled round and charged again; here the line broke, as each sought out new foes. An arrow whirred past his head. Hewing, slaying, driving the Wild Men together. They ran like herds before the hunters, and the Rohirrim went hither and thither at their will, the downpour swathing the fields in grey.

He had drawn his sword, now hacking down any that passed him by; _Gúthwinë_ soon gleamed crimson and dark, carving bone and tissue. He felt a blade pierce his thigh, stinging as blood was drawn, but in one swift stroke the adversary lay dead. Head parted from his body. Pressing a gloved hand to the wound in an attempt to gauge the depth of the cut, Éomer cursed himself for his lack of attention.

_It will heal_. Firefoot sprang forward at his next command, skilled and deadly as he sought enemies.

Most of the Dunlendings that were left alive then broke and fled, pursued one by one to the death. A few held together upon the hillock, driving resolutely forward, yet here they were overtaken and brought to bay by Éothain's men that came from beyond the slope. The cloudburst carried on, unrelenting, and another gleam flashed across the field. Thunder rumbled, deep tremors through the ground. Bodies lay trampled in the grass, broken under the overwhelming force of the riders, and the murky pools of water were dyed a dark red.

Over the wide fields, the riders hunted down the few stragglers that had escaped with strength enough to run, and soon the sounds had died away.

A deadly quiet lay upon the slopes.

Éomer reined in Firefoot, and his steed trampled restlessly; agitated and excited. He spoke quietly to calm it. Then, with mud and rain trickling down his face, he looked out over the field of battle. His squire approached, checking his own horse, and gave a brisk nod in greeting. "Eight injured, but none too severely that they will not heal," he reported. "And all men are accounted for. Victory is ours."

A silence fell over the pair for a long, thoughtful moment.

The sight before them left him despondent, for while there was no fondness for the vicious men of Dunland, he never wished for war. There had been some peace between the two peoples for some time, and Éomer did not know what had caused the raiders to enter the Riddermark once more. But the thought troubled him greatly. How had they made it this far into the Emnets? What had incited them to pass the mountains?

"Did you capture any alive?" Éomer asked.

Éothain nodded. "Three, although one bit his own tongue before we could stop him." He pulled a face. "Choked on his own blood before we could do much against it."

"Watch them," Éomer said, "I need to know how, and _why_ , they came into our lands."

The riders piled the corpses of their enemies, and he left a handful riders to light a fire once the downpour ceased. The ashes would be scattered, and the smoke of the burning would rise high to the sky; any watchful eye would see it and know that the Eorlingas remained ever vigilant. There was still strength left in Rohan, and any enemy would be met with a swift death by the ends of their blades.

With the end of the raid, Éomer gathered his chosen men and rode once more for the village. Around them, day had turned to late afternoon. Dark clouds smothered the light still, and the ground sploshed beneath their horses as they sank into the deep mud. Only a frail line of light in the far horizon showed the westering sun.

Water dripped from his armor, washing away any signs of battle, and a grim mood was on the riders. While the villagers had fought back the Wild Men, Éomer feared the cost of victory. The plains of the Eastemnet were home to farmers and herdsmen, caring for the earth and its crops, or driving packs of sheep and horses over the grasslands. Only few wielded weapons. Death would surely greet them – he had come too late.

_It will be a black night._

When they finally rounded one of the hills he caught sight of their destination, disappearing and appearing every time they climbed a slope. Many houses lay clustered together, with straw-thatched roofs and well-trodden paths; there were no fires burning for the heavy downpour had doused the flames, leaving only dark black smoke heavy in the air. Only a few figures hurried forward to meet the riders, while Éomer approached with a handful men at his side. Éothain, some of his personal guards, and healers followed Firefoot down the hill; the rest remained behind, in readiness, dark silhouettes against the bleak sky to guard the village.

"Welcome, my lord!" One boy ran to his side to greet him.

With a nod in response, Éomer gestured to the village. "Show me to the injured."

He was then led to the heart of the town, a cobbled square fronted on three sides by houses and stables, and here they found many people afoot. Dismounting, allowing the reins of his horse to be taken, Éomer was guided to a large building as people parted to give passage; even before he entered there was a stark smell of blood and urine. Fear and death hung heavy in the air.

Upon stepping inside, he rocked to a halt on the threshold. The tables had been pushed back against the wall and the wounded lay in long rows on the floor. Women and children; wails and screams muddled together over the shouts of healers and the trampling of hurried feet. The light was dim despite many torches, and long shadows wove across the wall. His gaze rolled over the injured, feeling anger spark within him at the sight.

Éomer removed his helmet.

"Éothain, put our men to work where they are most needed." Then he turned to the young boy that had led them through the streets. "Who is in charge here? Bring him to me, at once when he is able." At the message the boy hurried off, and Éomer approached the first in the line of wounded. Teeth ground together to repress the slow-boiling fury that grew in his mind.

The man's face was ashen pale, eyes flickering but unfocused and the skin was burning upon touch; picking up a small bowl, he fed the patient a little bit of water, although most trickled down the chin and spilled. Cuts ran down his upper body; jagged and dark patches of blood seeped through the linens wrapped tightly over the wounds.

For a while Éomer sat with the man, pressing a cool hand against the fevered brow, but his stare was fixed on the floor. The flickering light from the torches made work difficult, and healers rushed by with fresh water and bandages. A woman sobbed hysterically, her cries of anguish turned into indiscernible screams, but then followed silence. There was much clamor and noise, yet the underlying silence was much worse.

Éomer was about to move on and rise from the spot, when he felt a weak tug at his tunic that made him turn.

A child looked at him, a trembling hand closed rigid around the fabric of his shirt, and she feebly tried to pull him closer to her cot. Fingers whitened. Her face was blackened and discoloured, swelling so that she could barely see, and small gashes dribbled blood down her front. He shifted. Stroking hair from her face, gently coaxing her to lie down again, he motioned for a healer to fetch water. The girl whimpered and small sobs escaped, through lips pressed together in an attempt to appear strong. "Hush, now," he whispered, "You are safe."

Now tears spilled, glittering droplets in the torch-light. " _Mother_ ," she moaned. "Mother ...!"

Éomer's heart contracted with pity, eyes roaming across the room once more. _Has her mother survived?_ He feared the answer to the question, for surely the woman would have sat by her daughter's side – if she could. He could not answer the desperate call, and he strove with the anger once more turbulent in his mind. War was ever cruel and cold, but _this_? What right had the hillmen to attack a peaceful settlement?

When the healer returned with a large pot of hot water, he set to work cleaning the cuts and bruises with careful tenderness. His thoughts were deep at work, for still he could not see the path they had followed. The Fords of Isen were closely guarded from both the Hornborg at Helm's Deep and the fortress of Isengard; and only there, where the river became broad and shallow, could it be crossed. It would have been impossible to slip by unnoticed. _So how?_

A sweet smell flooded his senses, and he felt the weariness wane and his spirits return; his brow furrowed, for suddenly the air became clear, fresh as if a wind had brought it down from the mountains to be breathed for the very first time. New, like grass touched only by the first dew of morning. His mind calmed, anger abating as evil drained from his very bones.

"What is this?" He inquired, looking to the healer still waiting at his side for his next command.

The woman was about to respond, when another voice spoke instead. She quickly stepped aside. "Athelas, my lord Éomer." A man, grey-haired and aged, hobbled foward with cautious steps. Shakily, he tried to bow, but Éomer swiftly brushed off the greeting; standing up from the floor, the horselord approached and handed the pot of water to the healer.

" _Athelas_?" Éomer asked.

"Indeed, my lord, it was given to us by the Ranger. Its healing properties are most astonishing–"

Éomer interrupted curtly. "What Ranger?" He stepped further from the wounded, and the elderly man followed as they came to a clear area on the floor, where they would not be in the way. "Please tell me all that has happened. I know you were attacked in the hours before noon, but by how many and at what cost?" A darkened look overcame the other man, recalling what had transpired; there were but few details he could clearly remember and explain, nor did he know where to begin, except the all-devouring flames and the screams.

But Éomer learnt that twenty-five Wild Men had come into the village. They were all dead now, their corpses laid upon the pyres to burn without mourning, and left behind were sixteen other dead – men and women of the Riddermark. _Children_ , hewed down without mercy, to never see another sunrise. Even more lay injured.

"They came from every side, my lord, and we were soon overmastered." The man's hands trembled as he spoke. All blood had drained from his face. "If they had not been so scattered in their assault, there would have been no hope for us to fight back."

Clasping the shoulder, finding it thin and withered with age but not without strength, Éomer nodded; there was no shame in fear, even the greatest warrior would feel its touch on the eve of battle. Farmers, attacked without warning in their own homes? It would be a terror that would not soon leave; clutching their hearts for a long time and haunting their dreams even longer.

"Take courage," Éomer said, "Bravery is fighting where there is little hope of victory. And your people fought well."

The old man lowered his gaze.

"We have only few able men left in our village," he spoke quietly, "–they picked up arms and fought back as well as they could. But it was the Ranger that killed the most." Again, this mention of a stranger from the wild north puzzled him, and Éomer asked the village head to tell him more. This wanderer, usually so elusive; bringing forth unusual aid in this great hour of need. "She had followed their tracks here, and it was also her that warned us of a greater host pressing south."

" _She_?"

"Yes, my lord, for it was a woman that came to our aid." With a hand he motioned to the many injured that lay about them, eyes once more returning to meet the warrior's keen gaze. "–she stayed a while after, helped to tend wounds with strange herbs that were almost like sorcery. But then she slipped away, much too soon before we could give proper thanks."

Èomer's brow was deeply set as he listened, at first a good deal distrustful, and wondered what had driven the Ranger to depart in such a haste. But his uneasiness wore off; by helping the villagers, surely that would be proof of no ill will, and both his uncle and father had told him stories of the Watchers, back when he had been but a child. He should much rather feel gratitude.

"And why did she not stay?"

A grim look came about the elderly man. "Beyond the hills, to the west of here, there is a farmstead. The hillmen passed through there first, on their way to us. When she heard the news of your arrival, she returned with haste as there were still some survivors. She left a message for you, my lord, and bid me give it to you upon your arrival. The Ranger found riders there." For a moment he hesitated. " _Slain_."

With a heavy heart, Éomer understood what fate had befallen his scouts; why they had not returned in the night. He knew them, like he knew all his men, and they all had wives and children waiting for them to return home. _In vain will they now look to the horizon_. But they would not return. Then he nodded briskly, thanked the old man, and called Éothain to his side. There was little time before the darkening hours of twilight, but Éomer would not leave his riders for the carrion birds to feed on, alone somewhere in the fields.

"Leave half the company here to protect the village," he told Éothain as the pair strode from the house in haste. "The rest will ride with us."

Placing the helmet on his head once more, he accepted the reins of Firefoot and mounted swiftly. A great stir met them when they rode out from the village, as many horses fell into place around and behind their leader. It was raining still, small and cold drops beating down on them from an overcast sky; leaden and ominous.

They went on for perhaps another couple of miles. Then the sun gleamed golden-red out of ragged clouds, slanting down the hill, and the rain lessened. A long-drawn wail came down the howling wind, like the cry of some evil, but then there was a silence; quiet fell over them. Going west a mile or so they came to a dale, and at last they halted. The hill opened southward, leaning back into the slope but in the deepest hollow lay a farmstead. Here, destruction had raged as well, and the main house was left in crumbled ruins.

It was yet another miserable sight, and a murmur rushed through the riders before Éomer led them down the slope.

A figure, cloaked in grey, coalesced out of the misty haze.

The sun went down, and the very world seemed sorrowful and gloomy in that moment. Éomer saw the light of the sunset fade, and a shadow crept out of the corners of the Wold. He nudged his horse forward, approaching the lonesome Ranger that remained still and watchful. He noticed the sword and the bow, but neither weapon was drawn, and so he brought up a gloved hand in greeting. With the gesture, the figure stepped forward to meet him and pulled back the hood of the grey cloak.

Éomer then saw the face of a young woman.

"Who are you?" He asked, speaking in Westron. Handing his spear over to Éothain, he then broke from the group to approach alone. "What brings you to the Mark, and whom do you serve?"

Her eyes were dark in the waning light, but bright and keen as she watched them; small cuts and black-and-blue marks dotted her face, and her clothes were travel-worn. Blood soaked her sleeve, and mud streaked her boots. A silvery pendant shone at her neck, catching his eye for a brief moment before the light changed to a dullness. "I greet you." She spoke with a quiet calm, never faltering despite the many riders bearing down upon her. Her eyes flickered over him, pausing briefly at his weapons. Éomer, now by her side, dismounted and they came face to face.

She inclined her head.

"I am called Rell," she then answered, "–one of many that walk these lands, seeking to protect what little peace we may have. I came from the North."

"A Ranger of the North," Éomer said with some astonishment, and she nodded. "I am Éomer son of Éomund, and am called the Third Marshal of the Riddermark. But pray tell, what brings you here in these troubling times? It is seldom we see wanderers so far east of the Mountains. Your arrival was certainly timely."

The Ranger drew herself up, and he noted how tall she was for a woman; standing only one foot shorter than he, she responded. "My path is my own, my lord. I am following my kin east, but no more can nor shall I disclose. But do know this for certain, that my presence here is with no malice towards your people."

His eyes blazed and flashed at her inhospitable reply.

"Wanderers in the Riddermark, claiming to be allies or not, would be wise to tread with care," he warned. "There are many spies from the evil lands – and they come in many forms most unpredictable." His gaze flickered over her as he spoke. Eyes narrowed, but naught else betrayed her to reveal her ire, and her stance remained calm. For a moment his eyes lingered on her sword, but unless she moved to attack neither would he.

There was no honour in striking down a woman.

"I serve only the chieftain of my people, and I pursue the servants of Sauron in whichever land they may go. You should give thanks, my lord, for my aid. Not _shun_ it. A dozen Dunlendings lay dead, slain by my hand – where I could just as easily have chosen to disregard the plight of innocents, for they are not _my_ people. _I_ warned your Éored of the second host, enemies that would otherwise have gone unnoticed." His jaw tightened at forthright speech, but he felt some amazement at her for not relenting. For a moment he was reminded of his sister, both proud and stubborn; unbending.

Éomer stepped back. "You have not told me all, but I see the truth in your words. Will you not speak more of your errand? Without secrecy and in full?"

At this she shook her head. "I have no right to share any more than what I already have, and as such I must do you a discourtesy. My lord, I have come on an errand over many dangerous leagues, and I was to but pass unseen through your realm – if not for a duty to protect those in dire need. Forgive me for not speaking in plain words, but I cannot without a heart heavy with regret. I must hope you will therefore pardon it to one who has been given orders of such secrecy."

"Very well," he said, "You are pardoned from not speaking the true and full tale, albeit it is most sought. But know that I must therefore remain wary of you."

Then, with their exchange coming to a close in the slow persistent drizzle that soaked both spirits and garments, Éomer walked around her and found what he had come for. She stepped aside, head bowed, and allowed him to pass. On the grounds between the buildings lay three bodies; coarse cloths had been pulled over them, dark-black patches seeping through the fabric. A hole had been dug in the muddy ground in the first line of grass closest to the house. Swords rested by their side, cloven helmets and armour familiar even in the lessening light.

These men were his riders.

Éomer drew his sword. _His men_. He kneeled, heedless of the sludge and cold, and lowered his head in prayer as Gúthwinë dug into the ground. _May your spirits ride freely by the side of Béma, my brothers!_

He could feel the Ranger's gaze upon him.

Twilight was descending, cloaking his surroundings in shadow, when his attention fell on another pair of bodies laid out not far from his riders. His mind recalled the words of the old man – _survivors_ – and so he raised his eyes. Once more he looked at the woman, and he felt his heart pierced by the sudden keenness of her glance. "I knew not your customs, but I hoped a proper burial would be in order," she said, "Much rather than leaving them here for the crows to pick."

"We bury our dead," Éomer spoke with reassurance. "When we can." Then he called Éothain forward and released her gaze. His squire had wordlessly followed his lord's conversation with the Ranger, but quickly stepped up to his side. "Have the men set up camp, we shall stay here for the night. And then we shall dig their graves." Both his riders and the farmers would be laid to rest here, with the green hills and endless skies a peaceful company; hopefully their spirits would find solace. "Who lived here?" He asked.

"Follow me," she said.

The Ranger walked to the stables, halting once to see if he was following, and then slipped around broken beams into the burnt-down building. The smell of burning and ash was heavy upon the air, but the damage could have been much worse; the rain had saved the roof, and as he stepped further inside he came across areas completely untouched by the fire. In one stall he came across a horse; with a shining grey coat, shimmering almost like silver, and clever deep eyes; slung across the fence was a plain but well-kept saddle and several travel-packs, all likely the possessions of the Ranger.

But she carried on to the next stall, brushing a finger to her lips before speaking in a hushed tone. "They survived the raid, but it is their parents I have placed outside with your men." She allowed Éomer to step past her, and in the pile of hay he found three small figures huddled together in sleep. A horse-blanket had been drawn over them. He exhaled sharply, relief flooding him at the sight; the children had been spared. "There has been very little I could do to comfort them, for I do not speak your language. What shall happen to them now?"

"I will take them with me," Éomer said, "To Aldburg. I will find a home for them."


	6. Whisper of Betrayal

When the riders and the farmers had been laid to rest, and Éomer had cast the first earth upon their graves, the Éored made their camp two hours or so before the middle of the night. Darkness closed about them when they settled down to eat and rest; Éomer took the time to dress the shallow wound on his leg, once more cursing his brief inattention during the battle. His vexation stung worse than the cut. Under the starry sky and waxing moon, the darkness was brooding, and the cold increased.

Peering out he could see nothing but a grey land now vanishing quickly into shadow.

They lit fires, and guards were set; two at a watch, and the flames shone out brightly on the hills around them, where silhouettes moved about ever so often. The rest, after they had supped, wrapped themselves in cloak and blanket and slept. Éothain sat not far from the fire, head bowed but undoubtedly still awake and intently listening. Hands never far from his sword. Éomer had found a place partially sheltered by the walls of the stables, taking the worst bite off of the wind, and here he watched his men at work.

All were worn out from the long ride, and the battle, albeit swiftly passed, had taken its toll. It was soon becoming a starless and shadowed night, but also accompanied by an uneventful quiet heavy over the Mark. A gloom was about them. The riders shared their food with the Ranger, and she had no objection to what they offered. Stale bread and dried, salted meats. She accepted them all with gratitude, well-accustomed to the tasteless food of the road. All her arrows had been spent, and so she had attempted to trade for new ones with his riders; her quiver was filled for nothing in return. The men knew why the Ranger was without arrows.

They gave her all the best ones.

Éomer was silent for a while.

The children, now orphaned, lay together close to the fire, and the Ranger had come to sit by their side. Steadfast and vigilant. Her hood was drawn, cloaking her gaze, and the flickering flames made light and shadow dance across her face. He heard her sing softly to herself, and to the children, murmuring brief snatches of rhyme in an unfamiliar tongue. A few lines came clear to his ears through the rushing of the wind, and they soothed his mind though he knew not the words; for the language was fair and beautiful even to his ears. He could only imagine it was Elvish.

He watched her for some moments longer, unaware if she could feel his gaze and if she then remained indifferent to it; the dark grey cloak made her become almost one with the night, and the gloved hand never strayed far from the long sheathed sword. There was no edge of concern for her current company, but not once did she appear tired or with plans to settle for the night. Sleep remained far away – just as it evaded him. "Not all is well here," her quiet voice broke the silence, and he blinked her into focus. Clear grey eyes looked at him. "They were so very far from their own lands."

He knew of what she spoke. _The Dunlendings._

"Indeed," Éomer answered. The thought troubled him greatly – though he did not voice his concerns to her. Instead, he looked away and turned his gaze to the heavens, where there was neither star nor moon bright enough to breach the cover of darkened clouds. The enemies of the Rohirrim, jealous of the rich lands given to the horselords in the days of old, were ferocious, and their loyalties lay with no lord nor king. They had but one wish; to see the lands of the Riddermark devoured by flames and all its people dead in the fields.

Many a time before had they waged war against Rohan, yet never had they won, and the strife was now many ages ago. There had been peace through long winters and summers. He pulled a hand across his face, rubbing his brow as thoughts wove through his mind. The two prisoners back at the village would be brought to Aldburg for questioning, and hopefully they could shed some light on the mystery of the sudden attack.

Éomer's mind feared some betrayal to be at hand, but his heart wished not to believe it.

It was long past midnight. The sky was utterly dark, and the stillness of the heavy air foreboded storm. A blinding flash seared the clouds in the far horizon, setting the westward hills ablaze for a moment. The rain had stilled some hours earlier, but the wind threatened another downpour. The thunder was rumbling in the distance now, and lightning flickered once more – albeit still far off among the mountains.

Only few stirred in deep slumber, undisturbed even by the promise of a storm, but the Ranger likewise peered to the west. Yet her thoughts proved to not be drawn to the dullness of the weather, for soon she spoke again. "Are the Fords of Isen not controlled by the Rohirrim?" Over his heart crept a shadow, the gnawing fear of great danger from an unknown place, and her words were but echoes of his own thoughts. They resonated in his mind and chest, like the heavy beat of a drum it pressed against his bones with unrelenting strength. A cold chill crawled across his skin.

Thoughts that had stirred his mind ever since news of the Wild Men reached him.

Perhaps even long before then.

She watched him with honest eyes, expectant of his answer, and the grey orbs flickered in the light of the fire.

"At Helm's Deep, indeed, the great fortress overlooks the deep valley at the foothills of the Misty Mountains. There is no other way to cross the Isen unnoticed," he said, though his thoughts belittled his trust. _Then_ how _did they cross?_ There were no other places where a large force could effectively cross the river without fear of drowning, yet no word had been sent forth to warn his people. Surely the sentries in the Westfold would have seen them pass. They would not have let them pass unhindered.

He hesitated.

"Unless they headed far north and crossed the pass at the Gladden River," he muttered; more to himself than to the Ranger.

"I cannot tell you how they came to be here, but I do know that the lands to the north are well-guarded," the Ranger replied, certainty clear in her voice. "The Elves would never allow them passage, even if they would pose no threat to them or their lands. You may not believe it, but you have an ally in the woods of gold. No ... The tracks came from due west, straight across the Eastemnet." She drew in a deep breath, shifting in her spot, as if from discomfort, and an anxious tension flickered across her features. Now it was her turn to pause. "While it may not be within my right to speak of such, my lord, I fear you should be watchful of your closest allies. Of those you call _friends_."

"Such a statement would seem _too_ bold to many," he said, words sounding colder than he had expected. But she appeared unfazed, except perhaps for a flicker in her eyes that showed she was startled; alarmed. The Ranger lowered her gaze, and the hood fell down further, shadowing her features. Éomer did not intend to sound cruel, but her words felt far too _true_. "But tell me, then, what advice do you have for a Marshal of the Mark?"

"I am not certain, so I will say no more," she replied carefully, and he knew her words were weighed. "Perhaps it is simple to speak when you are a stranger looking in; speaking of things I know little of, in a land that is not my own. I apologize for the rashness of my words, my lord. I only spoke of what I believe to have seen, nothing more and nothing less."

For several long moments he watched her, and neither spoke in the wake of her regret; instead the crackling fire and the shuffling of his men and the horses filled the quiet, settling about them. One hand was drawn to the silver brooch, fastened to her cloak, fingers slowly trailing across the pointed star as she peered into the flames. With careful deliberation, Éomer considered her words in his mind.

A keen wind was blowing from the North again. The clouds were torn and drifting apart, and the first faint and pale stars peeped out.

Despite the darkness in his heart, there was still some light in the world; and in the quiet he saw, above the rolling hills, the westering moon flicker between the breaking clouds. Glimmering yellow in the storm-wrack. It hung low on the horizon, barely reaching the summit of the rock, but its light was enough to cast the lands in silver. "There was no reason for your apology," he finally spoke, gaze once more returning to the Ranger. "Your words did not stem from mindlessness. They ring true in my heart, though I much wish they did not."

She stirred and looked up.

"My uncle often warns me, that I think very little and speak too much." A wry smile played on her lips, but it disappeared not long after, and again her face grew grim. "I know only little of these lands, and most from the words of others and ancient writings, but I do know what surrounds your borders. I know the Elves, and I know my kin – the paths to the North are kept safe, and there is no doubt in my mind." Her eyes were shining with resolution. "The Wild Men did not cross _Limhîr_. So we must turn our gaze westward."

Éomer knew of what she spoke. For there was another way, one that would bring the Dunlendings to the plains of Rohan unseen, but only if a great betrayal had seen the light of day. His blood ran cold. In the great tower of Isengard, the white wizard Saruman had been a close ally for many hundreds of years; he had been welcomed to take command by King Fréaláf, to protect an otherwise little guarded region in return for the keys to Orthanc, and so he had done. Faithfully and unfaltering ever since.

"You speak of Saruman."

It was not a question.

"He is held wise, and his words are known to be just," she answered; Éomer noticed her hand once more came to clasp the six-pointed star, and there was little warmth in her voice. It was now low and secret, and none save Éomer heard what she then said. "Yet how can there truly be trust in one whose name means the _Cunning One_?" In that very moment a great rustle came upon the wind, and her free hand grasped the bow on the ground by her side; birds soared by high above their heads, large wings beating until they were gone once more into the darkness. "Master of beasts and birds."

"Fair are his words, and many a time he has come to the aid of Rohan," Éomer said, "–but it would not be a first for allegiances to change."

The fire was burning low, and the sky was quickly clearing to the east. The sinking moon was shining brightly, but the light brought little hope to him. The enemies of the Riddermark seemed to have grown rather than diminished. Despite his weariness and a heavy, grieving heart that felt the truth in the Ranger's words, there was no proof of the White Wizard's treachery. The Marshal sat silent.

And so the Ranger spoke again. "Truth shall come to those that seek it."

_Or an early end_ , Éomer thought grimly, for surely shedding light on such a grave betrayal would not be without repercussions. But he did not fear death; his loyalty was first and foremost to his people; his King and country. If no one else saw the grasping shadows, fighting for dominion over the grasslands of Rohan, then the duty fell on him. At the break of dawn they would ride out, at first to return to Aldburg but soon, and with haste, Éomer would turn his gaze to the Westfold. To hopefully find answers – be they good or bad.

Restlessness overcame him, and Éomer stood.

He looked at the Ranger briefly, her gaze turned to meet his, but then he nodded briskly and stepped away from the fire. Éothain stirred from his place in the shadows; here he had listened, taking no part in the conversation, and quickly he found a place by his lord's side. "What is the matter?" His squire asked, yet Éomer did not respond. With long strides he put a good distance between himself and the woman, now climbing the gently-sloping hill. All things about them were black and grey; there was a great stillness. No shape of cloud could be seen, for it was but a formless cover high above.

To him it appeared as naught but a groping gloom crawling onwards, and only little light leaked through them. Somber and featureless, and the glow of morning seemed rather to be failing than growing in the far horizon. Further along the crest of the hill watch-fires burned yet, and finally he paused as the slope began its descent. "Dark is the night," he said, hand lingering on the hilt of his sword. "Yet darker still the morning appears to me."

Éothain looked back to the farmstead, looking for the grey-cloaked figure that was the Ranger, and a frown marred his features. "Should one heed the words of an Elf-friend? One that comes from the North, passing unscathed through the Golden Woods?" And while Éomer could understand his squire's distrust, for he, too, had thought much of the same, he had seen no lie in the woman's eyes. They had been clear with honest belief. "No friends of the Rohirrim are to be found there."

"What path, then, do you see for the Dunlendings? For I see no other." Éomer asked, tone grim with exasperation; but his ire was not turned to his friend, but upon himself. The unknown was dangerous, more so than perils seen clearly in the light – the hidden enemy worse than all. Still, unwavering, his gaze was turned to the dark western sky. "The trails all lead to the Fords of Isen."

"Yet you know who holds command at Helm's Deep. Trust you not your cousin, Prince Théodred, to guard the region admirably?"

"You know the answer," he replied, "Théodred has my loyalty, and his own is with no other than Rohan and its people. It is not he that concerns me. No, Éothain, it is another I fear has let enemies cross our borders; for not even my cousin's watchful gaze holds power against that of a wizard's. Could Saruman not so easily mask evil deeds with a cover of sorcery? Blind our eyes to the truth?" Tendrils of light wove across the bleak cover of clouds, reaching further as the sun began climbing the eastern sky. "If Saruman has turned against us, I fear for our people."

He could see further still into the valley with the breaking of dawn. Neighbours were made enemies; such a beautiful night made restless by unwanted thoughts. Éomer was once again silent for a while, but behind him his riders began to stir from their slumber. New life was brought to the fires, and soon the dale was lit with many orange eyes flickering in the gloom.

As day opened in the sky, he saw gentle slopes run down into dim hazes before him.

They had come to the weary end of the night.

While the wind turned, bringing with it an air now clearer and colder, Éomer placed a hand on Éothain's shoulder. He breathed deeply. "I suppose it is no good thinking horrid thoughts without proof. We shall return to Aldburg, but prepare the men for a swift departure – I shall ride for the Westfold and see what treachery is afoot for myself!"

How grim his mind was full of doubt.

Éomer turned his back on the plains and went downhill, returning to the campfire and to the Ranger where he found her busy at work. Long fingers weaved meticulously through dark tresses of hair; twisting and pulling, revealing a face previously hooded. Young, much younger than Éowyn. But the lines; the bruises and cuts, tiny white scars, spoke of a harsh and long life. While finding a seat by the flames, he watched from the corner of an eye. The braid was simple, practical rather than decorative, and not soon after she was finished and allowed it to fall down her shoulder.

"My lord?" Her voice broke the silence, and he stirred from thought; her gaze was expectant, and Éomer understood she had previously said more. With a softness to her features and a mirthful light in her eyes, she spoke once more. "If one came from the north, passing around Sarn Gebir but otherwise following the banks of the Anduin, what way would he then take to reach Anórien?"

"Why do you ask?" He said, brow furrowed at the inquiry. Éomer had heard very little of the Ranger's purpose so far away from the lands of her kin, but now it seemed the journey would take her further still. _No good comes from the East_ , came the warning in his mind, _there is naught but perils_. Death awaited travelers that went to the east. "And does the one you seek travel by foot or on horseback?"

"I believe he took his horse with him."

Éomer nodded. "It would be foolish to pass any other way than crossing the Entwash. South of the great rapids of the Anduin you would find a land of marshes, for here the Entwash widens and joins the Anduin. It is advisable that travelers avoid the river delta, lest they wish to pull through pools of sludge and mud, and treacherous mires for many miles."

She looked at him. A gleam of sun through fleeting clouds fell on her hands, which lay now upturned on her lap, as if she cupped the light in her palms. At last she looked up and gazed straight at the climbing sun. The Ranger appeared as if she saw things far away that Éomer could not see. "So I must head further south?"

"That is the road I would take," Éomer said, "South, until you cross the Entwash into the Eastfold; then following the White Mountains you will reach the border between Rohan and Gondor. Many miles lie between, but it is much the fastest and safest way. The path is straight and even, and any rider would find it to be the clever one to take, much rather than the straight way through the marshes. And such is my advice. Take it if you will."

"I shall, my lord, and I thank you for your guidance." Then, with her final words, the Ranger looked far east to the rising sun and pulled the hood once more over her head. All about them, Éomer's riders made ready to depart; the horses were saddled, fires stomped out, and it would not be long before the Rohirrim would meet with the others back in the village.

Firefoot was brought forward, well-rested and eager, and Éomer was greeted as one would an old and welcome friend. The children were roused carefully, and each was assigned a man to ride with on their way to Aldburg; their faces were streaked with tears and sorrow lingered still, but with quiet looks they settled into a saddle each. It was but a little comfort, that they siblings still had each other.

The Ranger had brought her own mount from the stables.

Resting her forehead against the large animal, and with whispers in a strange but lilting language, she stroked the grey-dappled coat. In the glow of the sun it appeared almost silver, so beautiful it seemed unearthly. Éomer mounted, making Firefoot turn restlessly, for it much wished to run freely after the long night. The light about them was growing ever still, and the clouds parted to reveal the blue sky of morning; bird-song welled up from the tall grass, and a buzz was in the air. The silvery-grey mare was brought to his side. Much smaller and lighter than the steeds of Rohan, but with a fiery and wise look in its dark eyes spoke of cleverness, and its simple harness was cared for well.

"Thank you for your hospitality, my lord," she said, smiling beneath the hood. "The food I will cherish, and the arrows I will put to good use."

He gave a short nod, but much before he could respond Firefoot attempted to sidle up to the other horse. Trying to impress, blowing air through its nostrils. Quickly, Éomer reined him in hard, yet the Ranger merely laughed. The corners of his mouth tilted upwards, though he swiftly put on his helmet and looked around at his riders. "I must admit your horse is beautiful, and I believe she has captured the attention of Firefoot," he spoke with fondness.

"I am afraid Luin is not easily impressed." She laughed again. "Much too used to Elf-horses!"

With the light of day then coming into the sky, albeit grey still, Éomer was ready to depart. The company was all mounted between the ruins of the farmstead. The woman by his side brought a hand to her chest, inclining her head, before gloved hands pulled at the reins. Her smile widened.

"Farewell, and may you find what you seek," Éomer said, "And perhaps our paths will cross again, though I hope in better circumstances if so."

"Farewell, my lord," she replied, "And I shall pray for the best, for you and your men."

With that they parted ways.

Very swift were the horses of Elves, and soon she was but a small, grey dot on the green plains. Far away, heading towards a fate unknown to him – to the East, where dangers were many. For a while he watched quietly, until she left his sight and was entirely gone. " _Éored!_ " His voice rang out, clear in the din, and his riders stilled to listen. His spear, glistening in the sun, was raised to the sky. "We ride!"

So they passed on, hooves trampling; thunder running like tremors through the ground.

Behind, they left the blackened ruins of the farmstead and the mounds of his riders. Dark spears were stark silhouettes against the sky, upon the ridge now rising up behind them, and cloven helmets would soon be covered by green grass; here they would lie in their final rest, and he would bring words of sorrow to their families. They had given their lives in the line of duty, against an enemy that should not have stepped foot into the Riddermark.

Éomer swore he would find the truth.

_And betrayal will be met with death._


	7. Into Anorien

For a while she could hear the host of riders, a faint rumble carried on the wind, but soon it stilled as the distance between them grew too vast. She was alone once more. Luin's coat was cool as she placed a hand against it, feeling the steady beat of a heart beneath, and to some extent she felt soothed. Rell had enjoyed the company, despite the reason for their encounter; but it had been brief, and the road called once more.

When Rell finally looked back, she was then standing on the brink of a tall cliff, bare and bleak, and beyond rose the broken highlands crowned with drifting clouds. Far to the northeast, over shapeless lands, she saw a sickly green turning sullen brown and the rock-lands were wrapped in mist. Further still, a dark line against the morning, there she saw the contoured ridges of Emyn Muil. A foul and rancid smell was in the air, though she felt it was likely just her imagination.

Thickets of trees grew dense around the range of hills, but on the path she was to take there was nothing but open grasslands; further than the eye could see, and her journey appeared simple. All too simple; hunting the elusive creature had never brought them far out into the open, yet here she stood. On the hill, overlooking a great and vast expanse with little way to hide – why should this being of darkness and evil stray from its path? The river Anduin plunged between towering cliffs, and the rapids violent so that no man could pass by foot or by boat. The lake of Nen Hithoel was long and deep. A clever waterman would without trouble give the hunting Ranger the slip.

Rell gnawed at her bottom lip, frustration clear in her stomach at her new predicament.

A wise rider would follow her path without a doubt. But not a hunter tracking a prey – for he went where his prey stepped.

"Wrong," she groaned and burrowed her face in Luin's mane. "All is just so very wrong."

Hopelessness crept into her darkening mind, whispering voices of disappointment and failure growing increasingly loud; perhaps she should not have left the Angle, but stayed as her uncle commanded. He had been right; her training was far from finished, and in what possible way could she ever imagine tracking the chieftain of the Rangers down? It had been a fool's errand from the start. But only now did she admit it, and much too late to return without consequence for her disobedient actions. How very late was the hour of clear thought.

Surely her uncle, with a horse or without, could find safe footing through the marshlands and rocky outcrops of Emyn Muil and Sarn Gebir to the north; he would never come this far out onto the open plains where she now was. Her path was quicker, easier, but pointless when compared to her purpose, and as such a new course had to be made. If Rell was to return north-bound, to the banks of the Anduin, she could possibly find tracks in the soft ground by the waters; but how far would her setback become by doing so?

Would she even _find_ any trails?

Rell pulled at the reins, steadily guiding Luin down the slope. Again, as if taking shape to mock her sullen mood, the weather turned clear and bright. With the sun in her eyes, warm in the chilling breeze, she allowed her horse to steer with little control as her mind worked quickly through disarrayed thoughts.

Beyond all else, what troubled her the most was the fear of the ever-changing weather – as tracking through wetlands was difficult as is, but finding anything of use when rain and overflowing rivers intervened as well? Without much need for self-deprecation, she already knew her strongest point did not lie with her skills in hunting.

Far from it. Again, the task she had appointed herself seemed much too great. Leaning down in the saddle, burrowing her face in the soft mane, Rell gave a sigh. Without much guidance, the Ranger sent out a prayer, hoping one of the Valar would show pity and reveal the path for her to take.

Rell took a sip of water, now attempting to guess the distances around her and decide what way she ought to take. Until then there was not much else to do than listen to her gut – albeit with scepticism – following the top of a long hilltop and with the dark rocks of Emyn Muil clear in the distance before them.

Rell had gone some miles, and at last the long slope ran down into the plain.

She urged Luin into a quicker pace, now bolting across the grasslands with haste. The wind was in her face, cool, and her eyelids fluttered shut for only a moment. How tired she felt. Wounds and body aching, and her mind likewise. For a long moment she carried on like that, heedless of her surroundings as too many thoughts cluttered her mind.

A shadow flashed by, and the Ranger looked up to see a large black form circle above; drawing her horse to a halt, the bird – for it was a bird, although much greater in shape and size than any Rell had before seen – twisted twice more. Then it bent east-bound, vanishing against the light of the sun as a black mark that soon faded.

" _May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks_!" Rell exclaimed, feeling tears of relief spring forth in her eyes at the sight. With a sleeve, she quickly wiped away the wetness and smiled. The messenger of Manwë, the Great Eagle, rekindled the otherwise extinguished hope in her heart and she saw it as a sign from beings far beyond the heavens. A beacon to show her the way.

Who had sent it, or if it had merely passed by chance, she knew not; but it mattered little.

Perhaps she had not been so wrong to listen to the Marshal of the Riddermark. Aragorn was a greater and more clever hunter than she, and his trails would be hidden from her sight; but if by riding further than his path, she could then meet him on the road ahead? Rell could wait for him beyond Nindalf, where the river divided the lands of Anórien and Ithilien; in the long shadow of _Ephel Dúath_ , which surely the unusual creature was heading towards. Evil sought out other evils.

For a short while she laughed, unable to resist, more than anything at her indecisive mind that caused so much trouble. Changing opinions as often as the wind, blowing first from the north and then from the south. Irresolute and uncertain, yet always strong in its course; to suddenly grow fickle and change in an instant. "Those that wait with patience shall be rewarded," she mumbled beneath her breath. "–and the impatient will stumble and fall. Come, Luin, to the East we will go! And do not allow me to change my mind any further than this, or you may throw me from the saddle!"

It was but a day's ride before Rell saw the shimmering waters of the Entwash in the distance before her. As if by luck, they came to a shallow part of the river, studded with broad, flat stones, and she approached the muddy bank. Beech and willow grew dense, great and long branches reaching down over the soft-churning surface; fingers greedily grasping for silver, and they proved a good place for shelter to the Ranger. Rell dismounted, looking around with wariness – she could hide, but so could her enemies if any were afoot.

The river flowed by sluggishly, chuckling, and there was a peace to the lands. On the opposite bank she saw tall reeds and boulders, but further still the grasslands continued. Then she led Luin to the waters and allowed the horse to drink. Rell found a large and even stone, half-way into the waters, where she sat down; drawing the bow from her back, slipping off her coarse tunic so she sat but in an undershirt, she studied the wound on her arm.

The bleeding had stopped, leaving dark-black patches soaked into the linen, and as she peeled it off she found the cut to be healing nicely. It was still red and swollen, but there appeared to be no infection or pus. Rell cleaned the wound, ignoring the sting, and quickly redressed it with fresh bandages from her satchel. Proceeding to then wash her face and arms, finding some strength renewed, and putting her clothes out to dry, the Ranger could not help but splash about in the waters. The Autumn sun was warm still, and the clear skies were much welcome as her mood turned from sullen to light.

Allowing Luin a well-deserved rest, Rell trudged along the riverbank. Her feet slushed through the mud, but often she jumped from stone to stone when able, and soon she came across thickets of wild berries. And while she sat in the shade, picking sour gooseberries, the world seemed – perhaps only briefly – less grim to her. Many times Rell had dreamt of heading out into the wild, to explore a world so foreign to her, and finally the Valar had given her reason to.

Her uncle would have her hide for her actions, that she knew, but surely it was well worth it.

A crow settled in the beech tree above her, letting out hoarse caws as it tripped from branch to branch; beady-eyed, head twisting from side to side as it observed her, it then startled into flight again. The Ranger, disturbed by the sight, filled her pockets with berries before walking back to her horse. Here, Rell filled her waterskin with fresh water, and found an empty leather-bag for the gooseberries; she did not dress fully, for the clothes were still wet and instead she slung them across the saddle. Rell took off her boots and hung them in a strap next to her shirt.

Then she pulled Luin with her into the river.

The water was cold, and it flowed more swiftly than Rell had first hoped. The currents tugged at her calves as her bare feet sank into the frigid river-mud. Yet the Entwash was shallow, at least, which was a little comfort against the melted snow-waters from Methedras. She took twenty steps before the river reached her knees, and the next paces became increasingly laborious while she scouted for safe footing between jagged and hidden rocks.

She took another step, and another. They were almost in the midstream now; the far bank was drawing closer, though she found it to be far away still in her exertion. Where water ended and land began. Luin followed faithfully by her side, providing some measure of support, but the waters were murky and dangerous if Rell did not lead the way. Sand gave way beneath her feet, and often she slipped and struggled. Other times she found smooth and solid stone, equally hard to step, but finally she felt shallow-water weeds between her toes; setting her jaw agains the cold, Rell drew herself through the river and onto the bank.

Here she collapsed.

Shivering, wet and bone-chillingly cold, Rell was with little strength left. Lying on the stones, between bulrushes and reeds, her eyes fluttered shut. Her breathing heavy, little more than gasps for air, as she clasped her arms around her body in an attempt to find heat. But the sun was out, and soon her clothes changed from soggy to damp, and the Ranger could redress. Draping the cloak close, warmth enveloped her; she drew into the saddle and began following the river's path as it ran east.

It was an easy ride, and it would continue for another twenty miles until the river spilled into the delta. The marshes would here force her a little further south, but then Rell would cross the border of Rohan. Leaving the land of horselords, instead entering the South Kingdom of the Númenóreans. Wondering if perhaps she would come close enough to the city of Minas Tirith; to see the white walls, clear in the haze of Ered Nimrais, beyond the fields of the Pelennor. It was but a city of stories to her, read in safety and comfort back in Rivendell.

The high seat of her ancestors.

But for now she kept the sluggish river to her left, and the green and open fields to her right. While riding, she came upon a beaten way, following the currents with every bent and twist; up and down in the green country. There were no clouds overhead, and it felt hot for the season of the year. But all about her were signs of changing, from Autumn to Winter, as green blended with yellow, red, and orange. Where Eriador was blessed with long summers and mild winters, however, the closer one drew towards the mountains and the sea the rougher the weather turned; if Rell did not find her uncle soon, rain and snow would meet her.

The river wound its way through the landscape, and many small waterfowls pipped between the reeds; often they would duck below the surface when Rell came too close. Coots, marble-white beaks and black feathers, slipped between the reeds for protection; a heron stood still, waiting, hunting for frogs in the muddy waters by the bank. For a while she observed a paddling of golden-eyed ducks; and they, too, kept a close watch on her but they were not yet startled. The Ranger gave them little reason to fear her.

They were out in the deeper part of the river, and even if she shot and killed one it would merely be swept away by the currents.

A life would be lost for no good reason. So, instead, Rell waited and watched. If the ducks came to shallow waters her supper for the next couple of days would be set.

It was now past midday, and the air heavy and warm. The sun was painting the hill-lands in the fire of Autumn; the muddy ground beneath her horse was slowly turning to rock, and, looking ahead, she saw craggy cliffs spreading on both sides of the river. The slope began a descent, making the waters roar to life. White foam rolled in waves, lapping against the riverbank and great boulders, but the path veered off.

Rather than venture through the jagged rock-lands, Rell followed the dust-trail. Now skirting the cliffs, casting long shadows over the ground, a rancid smell wove into the air. Rell pulled a face, nose crinkled into a frown, though took it as a sign she was swift approaching the river delta and the marshes of Nindalf. half an hour passed before the rocks thinned, revealing the river once more; albeit it had now split into many smaller, but equally rapid, currents over an open stretch of land. Wide fens and mires now lay, stretching away northward and eastward.

It was but the beginning of the delta, and tufts of grass and trees still grew there. But the ground was less stony and more earthy, and slowly its sides dwindled to mere banks. Peering to the far north, silver threads spread throughout the plains and further still than she could see. Resting for a moment, keeping Luin from descending the hill, Rell was glad. Crossing the many small streams would have cost her precious time, and by going around she would now likely had gone ahead of her uncle.

The stream gurgled. Dry reeds hissed and rattled though she could feel no wind.

But then she spurred her horse forward, setting a slowed pace. Rell never strayed far from the Mouths of Entwash; passing through thickets of dark-leaved trees, climbing steep banks crowned with old cedars. Gentle slopes ran down into the dim hazes below. Rocky walls were starred with primeroles and lily-flowers. Besides the river grew deep green grass, and falling streams halted in cool hollows. Flowers of many colours; blue, or red, or pale green.

Rell followed the stream, and it went downhill quickly before her.

And as such, the Ranger carried on through the day and further still. In a hook on her saddle hung two ducks, and Rell's quiver was some arrows shorter. Light waned and dusk was settling, so she looked about for a hiding-place where she could shelter from evil eyes. As soon as the land faded into a formless grey under coming night, Rell decided on a small dell; her view was clear out over the river, and rocks stood tall against her back.

With the cloak drawn close around her, no fire was lit that night, and she ate the last berries from her satchel.

Then she slept.

* * *

Far she rode, without meeting neither beast nor man in her path through the Eastfold, and the journey was solitary. While Rell often only came by narrow paths among the folded lands, rocks and crevices, she managed to set a swift pace most of the time. But despite the haste with which she traveled, it seemed to her that they were creeping forward like snails. Getting nowhere. Each day the land looked much the same as it had the day before. Yet, if she looked around with keener eyes, the green grass grew dull and dry beneath Luin's hoofs, and more often than not she passed wider lands with bleak hills.

Tumbling away to her left, there were valleys filled with murky waters and fens; few and winding paths led into the marshlands, but Rell drew her horse away and stayed upon the open plains whenever possible. When she climbed rocky hills she was often led only to the edge of some sheer fall, or down into treacherous swamps. Going back and forward, attempting to steer southeast and away from the Mouths of the Entwash, Rell came to a second river two days after crossing _Onodló_. It was but a stream, flat and sleepy waters running through the grass, and it appeared shallow.

She drank from its waters; finding it cold and clear, fresh from the mountains far to the south, but soon she was on her way again. And so, heart thumping in anticipation, Rell crossed the border into Gondor. Night came, swiftly followed by morning. Days passed. Rell ate cold and cheerless meals, for she could seldom risk the lighting of a fire even though she passed through friendly lands. On the fifth day after crossing the Mering Stream, the Ranger reached a low ridge crowned with ancient holly-trees, with grey-green trunks that seemed to have been built out of the very stone of the hills.

Their dark leaves shone and their berries glowed red in the light of the setting sun. But Rell turned her gaze further towards the horizon, for away to the south she could now see the dim shapes of lofty mountains. They were drawing nearer. Their tooth-like tips dipped with snow, but otherwise they were bare and bleak; largely cloaked in shadow, but where the last sunlight slanted upon the peaks, they glowed red. Long darkness stretched over the lands, smothering the last light and soon only the moon, dim between the clouds, looked down upon her.

Rell left Luin for a while in the hollow between the trees, now scouting the area before settling for the night. Bow and arrow ready in her grasp. There was no wind, and dead silence was around her. The only sounds came from her own Ranger's feet against the ground, muffled by leaves and fern, and around them there were but trees and flatlands. With a frown, she knew another night without a fire was ahead.

She returned to her horse.

In the hours of darkness the air became cold and clammy for a great mist crawled across the lands; brewed in the marshes to the north, and soon the world around her was cast in grey. A smell of rot filled her nose, and she burrowed her face between her knees; only dark eyes peered out, ears trained for any sound foreign to the Ranger. An owl hooted from the thicket of trees, long and solitary cries, but she also heard eerie noises in the darkness. The wind in the cracks of the rocky wall, or wild howls of laughter. But Luin stood by her side, with a quiet calm, and the tautness in her shoulders waned at the sight.

Rell gazed wearily ahead though saw nothing, but finally slept a little that night.

How she missed company on the road.

The full light of morning roused her from sleep, and a surprise met her. While her eyes had been transfixed on the mountains, now, with the lifting of the mists, the Great River became visible in the far distance. Dense trees, growing strong on the banks of the Anduin, followed the horizon as a line of dark green. It was an unexpected sight, for Rell believed the river still to be far away – two, perhaps three, days on the road – and now a choice was before her again. Something she had put off previously, hoping a plan would form on its own.

She looked to Luin, brushing a hand flat across the horse's muzzle, before asking. "What do you think? South?" With her free hand Rell pointed to the mountains; further, where they would find Minas Tirith and the crossings at Osgiliath. "Or North?" Through Northern Ithilien, skirting the Mountains of Shadow at a safe distance, until she could set up camp near the marshes. It all came down to a question of whether her uncle had gone one way or another at the Falls of Rauros. The right choice would lead Rell straight to him. At least, that was what she _hoped._

However, Rell did not think much upon the _wrong_ choice.

Picking up a small, flat pebble, turning it over in her hand – one side covered in moss, the other not – she paused. "What do you think, Luin? Moss for North?" Without waiting for a reply that would not come, she then tossed the stone high into the air and watched it. With a _clack_ it hit the rocks, skipped up and down; once, twice, thrice; before rolling off the edge of the ridge. Her face fell. Luin let out a gentle, high-pitched neigh, throwing its head back as if in laughter, and Rell leveled a look at the horse. "You find this amusing?"

She could not help but smile.

Then, instead, Rell called upon all the knowledge she had been taught, reproachful at herself for never paying more attention; every little memory or story Aragorn had told her in the warm light of a fire whirled through her mind. With blankets drawn up to her ears, and small legs dangling back and forth over the edge of a stone bench. The wisdom he had tried to impart on her, where she rather wished to slay dragons or go into the wild unknown. "It is a roundabout way to go south," Rell muttered, eyes closed as if to recall maps spread out flat on a table in Rivendell. "There is no way into Mordor from there. Except, of course, for the Morannon, but that would only be reached by going north again. And the road is long and perilous."

A shiver ran down her spine at the dreadful thought, and she was not much too keen to stand in the shadow of the Black Gate. But perhaps the Ranger never needed to go that far north, and instead wait by the edges of the marshlands. If the elusive creature did enter the Lands of Shadow, surely it would then be lost to her either way. Her uncle would have to pass through the marshlands at some point; be it from the green lands of Ithilien or Emyn Muil. Rell let out a groan, swining into the saddle.

She much preferred when others made the choice for her!

Luin sprang down the slope, bolting over meads of withered grass amidst a land of fen and tussocks. There was no eagerness to be found in her mind; much too content with how things had been previously, where decisions were still many days ahead. She let her horse set the pace, and the way. Now everything felt so sudden. The crossroads before her made her heart heavy and torn, indecisive to her own path.

But now she had reached the hour upon which she had to choose.

No one would make the choice for her. In the end she decided upon the fastest road.

Upon her left the land was treeless, but also flat, and still in many places green. But on her other side, the dark edge of a forest appeared in the daylight. Growing at the foothills of the mountains, and still so far away it was but a dark line against the red-tinted mountains. The Drúadan Forest was believed, by both the people of Gondor and Rohan, to be haunted. While Rell felt no fear at the thought of ghosts, although it was likely something else that haunted the pinewood forest, she saw no reason to upset ancient beasts or creatures. So she veered North, making sure her path never brought her close to the outskirts of trees.

The cold dawn had soon passed, and warm winds brushed across the lands. A light kindled in the sky, a blaze of yellow fire that grew with the passing hours. Golden tendrils wove between puffy clouds, now drifting lazily over blue skies, and Rell almost forgot she had passed into the waning season of Autumn. Throughout the day she rode, when finally she saw the first signs of settlements. The dull and dry plains gave way to fair and fertile townlands, on long slopes and terraces and wide flats falling to the deep levels of the Anduin.

Mostly she came by lone farmsteads; fenced in by fields of golden corn, or with flocks of sheep running away, bleating as she rode by. People paused mid-work to watch, but their faces were grim and molded with concern, and no word was passed between farmer and Ranger. No one disturbed her despite all could see, even from a great distance, that it was a stranger passing through. Those, that worked in the fields, straightened their backs for a while and watched with curiosity, but then they soon carried on with their daily lives. When looking closer, she found that most men carried arms.

She spent a rainful night with a farmer and his wife, kind enough to provide shelter to a stranger that stood drenched and cold in the doorway. In return Rell shared the ducks with them – she feared there would be no chance to light any fires once she crossed into Ithilien. There were too many enemies in the hills and forests, and a flame in the dark was all but screaming for a raid in the night. She traded the second bird for a bit of bread and cheese, and a skin of milk.

In the morning light she set out again.

Every now and again she passed small hamlets, encircled by a stockade of wood or thorn. Well-tended fields of barley, or farmlands plowed and harrowed but left unsown for the season. Rell kept a pace that was neither fast nor slow, and many miles lay behind her. The clash with the Dunlendings and her meeting the horse masters of Rohan were now in the past; briefly she wondered if the Marshal had unveiled a betrayal by the hands of a wizard, or if something else was afoot. But soon her mind fell to other things.

While keeping as close to the river as possible, avoiding groves of trees and mudbanks that would slow her down, a day later Rell came upon a well-trod road. There was no danger of the path being made by enemies, for the realm of Gondor was still well protected on this side of the river, and so she followed it without worry. As expected, Rell soon after came to a village. Nestled on the hillside with windows looking east, the houses were made of burnt clay and wood. The roofs were thatched, but where the horselords of Rohan used grass they here used straws, yellow and dry; many people, men and women, were milling about, and Rell approached with little haste.

She removed her hood.

The unmistakable feeling of eyes upon her back followed her through the village. They stopped, watched, but soon went back to their own dealings. Meddling in the affairs of a stranger was often not worth the trouble; and at times asking questions could give unwanted results. Rell kept her head down, gaze transfixed on the road, as her fingers tightly gripped the reins. Such looks were familiar to her.

But when she came to the outskirts of the village, she drew Luin to a halt as her mouth twisted into a thin, white line. Looking around, finding those around her eager to avoid her gaze, Rell saw a young boy staring back unperturbed; head held high, and a proudness in his grey eyes, he sat astride on a fence. Arms crossed. "What do you want, and where do you come from?" He asked gruffly.

Rell cocked an eyebrow at his tone. "I am journeying east," she said, "Tell me, does this road lead to Cair Andros?"

"We don't often see strangers riding on this road," he went on, apparently much forgetting her question – or caring nothing for it. "You'll pardon my wondering what business takes you away to the East! What, might I ask, is your purpose?" With little patience, allowing a sigh to escape her lips, she did not like the tone of his voice that spoke much of his impertinence. The eyes were curious, without malice, but there was little reason for such obvious interest. Rell excused his behaviour as boyish acts of boredom.

"I shall ask again, and with an answer or not I will be on my way again! Is this the road to the river-island of Cair Andros?"

For a long moment he watched her. He gave a nod. "Aye, it is. You keep to the road until it splits, then you follow the north-way."

Despite the first impressions Rell gave thanks for the help, wished the boy a good day, and they said no more. She rode forward, passing a few detached houses until finally leaving the village behind, all the while feeling the boy's gaze following her until she was out of sight.

A few birds were piping and wailing in the fields, and along the way several other, small roads joined the one she was on. Likely leading to other villages and settlements. The next stage of her journey was much the same as the last, although Rell no longer found herself traveling alone; many a time the Ranger passed ox-drawn carts and wagons, pack-mules bringing provisions to and fro the island she knew to be ahead, or groups of armed riders. A courier galloped by in the opposite direction with great haste, leaving behind a cloud of dust that took long to settle.

The eastern sky was dimming, and the first signs of night could be seen on the horizon.

When the road met the river, Rell drew Luin to a halt; out on the shimmering surface, wide and grey, she saw a large island. Long. Narrow. The swift currents of the Anduin broke against sharp rocks, churning the water into white bubbling foam. Trees grew dense and covered most of the land, but at one point in the times of old there had been raised tall stone-fortifications. It was here that a bridge spanned the rapids, and dark stone-blocks and wooden boards led from one bank to the other. The ford was used mostly by Gondor and its armies.

There were only few safe crossings – and no other in this region. The closest fords were the Undeeps in Rohan far across the border, and the bridge of Osgiliath to the south. Now Rell just hoped they would allow her passage. Luin's hoofs sounded hollow against the planks, and a swift wind picked at her hair and clothes when they came into the open. Cold droplets of water sprayed against her cheek. A great gate was ahead, fencing in several buildings made of stone; what looked to be barracks and a three-winged keep, and much noise welled up to meet Rell upon her approach. Banners fluttered on the battlement; a white tree crowned with stars, stark against a dark background.

Rell noted how there was no crown above the tree.

Many men in bright mail sat in the shadow beneath the gate, playing cards and sipping ale from a great barrel, and one sprang at once to his feet. The way was barred to her, but no sword was yet drawn from its sheath though his eyes rested on her weapons. "Stay, stranger here unknown!" He cried, attempting to fix his crumbled tabard over his armor. There was wonder in his eyes but little friendliness; Rell held up a hand in greeting, the other still tugging at the reins to slow Luin to a halt. Her eyebrow raised in mild interest.

"Good day," she smiled. "I came from Rohan, and before that from the north. Now I am to go to Ithilien, for such is my journey, and I much hoped to cross here. Rather than my horse and I both risk drowing at one of the smaller crossings!" With that, she watched the guard expectantly and waited for a reply. At first he glanced at her with a look of disbelief, eyes flickering past her to see if she was truly alone, and then he turned to his companions as if to seek assistance. "I am merely passing through," Rell added in an attempt to be helpful, "And I am certainly no spy!"

"Are you travelling alone?" He asked with hesitation.

"Yes," she said.

Her answer, short but truthful, made the guard falter once more. Rell waited. "What is your purpose?"

"To pass into Ithilien."

Rell saw his jaw tighten, and she schooled her features to avoid laughing outright. "Yes, you have stated as much. _Why_ do you have reason to pass the crossings?" For a moment she remained quiet, considering her next words with care for there was little reason to disclose the truth to her purpose. But neither would a vague answer be allowed; she could not imagine that they so easily let any – stranger or not – walk freely through their northern regions, bordering so very close to the Dark Land. Here, always, a shadow hung ever long over Gondor.

"It is the fastest way," she finally said, glancing past the man. "I am visiting distant kin in Esgaroth, and the straight way through Rhovanion is much the simplest and swiftest to take." With one look at the guard's face it was clear that he believed very little of her words; there was no fast path, at least not so far to the east, unless one planned to ride in the shadow of the mountains. Clear in the eyes of the watchful enemy. "My horse is swift, and I am well armed!"

Her gloved hand drew the sword into view, and again Luin tripped restlessly beneath her. Dancing over the boards with hollow clacks.

But the guard told her to wait, stepped back to his awaiting comrades, and here they started a longer discussion with heads bowed together. The Ranger could do nothing more but wait, wait and pray. There were but two outcomes. One would send her back, and the way north would be barred to her; forcing her fifty miles south to pass through the old capital of Gondor, not long ago reclaimed from the clutches of orcs. But perhaps her weak lie was accepted, and Rell could without trouble then continue her journey northward. Into the marshes without further delay.

The warm sun burned down upon her head, and a sheen coated her forehead and neck. The air was stifling in her throat, ashen gales brought down across the tall ridges encircling the dead plains of Mordor. At that moment the guard came again, watched her beneath his helmet, before finally speaking his judgement. "You may pass, although it is a fool's errand to attempt crossing Dagorlad alone. We may be in control of the lands of Ithilien and only with a large number of men, though neither does it give promise that no enemies of Men will be found ahead." He stepped aside. "I have done and said what I could, but we have deemed the choice in the end to be your own. Expect no more than death in your travels forward."

Slowly and with her head bowed in silent farewell, Rell spurred Luin into motion and so she passed the gate.

The ground below gave way to cobbled stone laid out in the square, and great clangs from a smithy's hammer reverberated between the walls. She saw bowmen on the battlements, watching the distance with keen eyes while leaning against the breastwork, but otherwise the fortification appeared quiet. Only few were idly at work. Horses, coats glistening with sweat, stood steaming as two men attended to them. Their green cloaks were tattered, dark patches of dirt and blood clearly visible, and they returned her gaze evenly.

Their faces looked grim.

When she came to the second gate, the guards did nothing to halt the lone Ranger; their inquisitive eyes were on her, but no words were exchanged. Rell crossed the bridge, and soon the roaring waters of the Anduin faded behind her until silence was about her. The isle of Cair Andros vanished soon from view. And in the hours before sunset, a fair country of climbing woods and swift-falling streams enclosed her on the path. The road wound between rock and tree, but soon it dwindled to a dust-path little used. Rell kept to it still, for as long as she was able, and it guided her by the fastest way through the ever-growing woodlands of beech and oak.

The path had been made in a long-lost time when the fate of the world appeared so different than the bleakness of the Third Age, but the untamed wilds encroached upon it now; the handiwork of Men of old could still be seen in its straight sure flight and level course. Now and again it cut its way through hillside slopes, or leaped over a chuckling stream. Rell found respite in the shade cast by the trees as Autumn had little claim over the lands of Ithilien, and flowers bloomed still fair and bright in the grass. Sages of many kinds put forth blue and red flowers, and herbs peered out between roots. Moss and weeds crawled over the ridges, following the road, and branches hung low enough for her to touch.

Many great trees grew in the thicket, and here and there, peering out between bushes, old stones lurked amid weeds and gnarled ivy. Broken pillars, signs of enduring masonry that faded only slowly with the passing of time. The lands were still fair, mirroring a long-forgotten era where Men built great things both far and wide. When they had power and strength to rival the evils of their neighbour.

Sweet smells rose up about her.

But despite the beauty around her, Rell was constantly aware of her surroundings, and that she was alone. With the growing distance to Cair Andros, the Ranger was passing further into the territory of the Enemy. The woods provided cover, growing densely while she was still close to the Anduin, though she would soon need to seek higher ground – and west, to the outskirts of the marshlands, where she would once more be out in the open. The day passed uneasily.

The sun became veiled, and as soon as the first touch of darkness fell over the lands Rell left the path. Creeping over the westward rim of the forest, dusk came at length. No more than two arrow-shots from the road, Rell found a mossy pit; large and open, and she decided to rest for the night. A deep silence fell upon the little grey hollow where she lay; so near the borders of the land of fear.

The moon was few days from the full, but it did not climb far over the treetops. There were but few stars out, swathed in clouds, and the warmth of day gave way to cool airs. In silence she ate half the bread, and a little of the cheese, before settling in for sleep. Her stomach growled, but there was nothing to be done about her hunger. She knew not the lands, and hence would not risk a fire.

When it started to rain she was not even surprised.


	8. The Counsel of Kin

Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark, was a man that, above all, would not admit that he was worried. Perhaps even scared. The feeling was kept close to his heart, a secret never shared nor spoken of with any besides his own mind in the darkness. Not only because he led two hundred men by example, and if he faltered so would they, but also because it was against his understanding of himself. He was a prideful man, that he knew well, and he would not bend against any enemy.

But what he had seen throughout the last days – nay, _weeks_ – left a bitter taste in his mouth. Cold air blew on his face, and evening was coming. Approaching with swiftness; a darkness that no light could pierce. The sky above was growing dim. In his mind Éomer pieced together the memories from a long and weary day; the Dunlendings, the burning village and his people; the injured and the dead. The words of a woman, speaking of trails leading him west.

_Betrayal_.

Their journey had been hard, and he had spared his riders no rest throughout the day. Through sunset, and slow dusk, and gathering night they rode. The captured Wild Men lay bound and gagged, thrown across a horse each, and were pulled along amongst a great sea of riders. Spears surrounded them. There had been no attempts to escape, and Éomer had seen terror clear in their faces whenever he had looked back. Whether they could tell him much, or anything, was yet to be seen; and neither did he know what to do with them after. They could not be released or returned, but it was a great effort to keep them alive in captivity. It would be cheerless work for any of his men set to the task, and while loyalty demanded his orders be carried out, it would be done with no love spared.

Easiest of all would be to kill them, for they were of little use.

The thought did not sit well with him.

His pondering was set aside when little watch-fires sprang up, golden-red in the darkness. Behind the light, ghostly pale, the foothills of the White Mountains towered into the darkness. The hill, ever-green in daylight, wide before the feet of the mountain came into clear view. The fortified hill-town, ancestral home of Eorl the Young and his descendants, was now also Éomer's dwellings for many years. Aldburg was encircled by a broad wall, and commanded the road with a clear view over the Folde. Upon their approach the dark gates were swung open, and the many riders entered into an open square. Horses milled about, hoofs thundering against stone, and Éomer gave out orders.

The prisoners were to be safely guarded until he was ready to question them, and his men would eat and rest for the night; but by morning all were to be ready for departure. Éomer dismounted. A stablehand was quick to take the reins of Firefoot. At first he checked to see that the orphaned children would be taken good care of, as they with tired eyes were carried off to a warm meal and a warm bed.

With Éothain by his side they followed a broad path, paved with hewn stones, as it winded upward. The iron-bound gate shut behind them and the men returned to their posts on the battlement. Guards dragged along the hillmen; neither fought back then, but they were moving very little of their own accord. Passing many houses standing close together, until at length they came to the crown of the hill.

Here stood a mighty hall built entirely from wood. Door wardens stood and bowed upon his approach, and the doors were opened before them into a large chamber; a fireplace smoldered throughout the night, turning the air heavy and warm, and was flanked by long tables on both sides. Lit torches hung between woven tapestries; old pictures painted in glory. From the battle of the Field of Celebrant; Eorl the Young and his son, Brego; the Golden Hall, to horses of many colours running over vast fields.

He and his sister had spent many nights beneath those pictures, under pelts and wools, listening to their mother telling stories from times of old and ages gone. But that was many years ago now. His mother had long since died, and his sister was many miles away. With heavy and long strides he walked past the fire, finding his place in the high seat upon the dais, and the Dunlendings were brought before him. With faces flat against the floor, groveling in fear of an unknown fate, one rambled away in their low, guttural language. To Éomer's ears it sounded more like the snarls of an animal, than words of a man.

The other remained silent.

Giving sign to Éothain, his squire stepped to the quiet hillman; digging into the tangled mess of hair, he pulled back the head to reveal a bushy face. The hair was matted, with blood and mud, but the dark eyes shone with both malice and fear. Soon mingling into anger, and suddenly the man started to fight. Kicking, twisting in the grip and against his bindings, Éothain took him by the back of his neck and pressed him to his knees. Though not before landing several hits across the captive's face. The guards had then drawn their swords.

The other Dunlending whimpered and curled further in on himself.

"Sheathe your weapons," Éomer dismissed, shifting in his seat as the struggling captive was once more forced to look up at the Marshal.

Gúthwinë came clear into view as he rested the sword across his knees. Then he leaned forward, head resting in his hand as he looked sharply at the pair. From one to the other with quiet, calm, deliberation. Although they had a language of their own, the Dunlendings understood – some with more difficulty than others – the language of the Rohirrim. They could not claim otherwise. One returned his gaze evenly, hatred burning in deep-set dark orbs, while the other had yet to look up from the floor.

"I am no merciless lord," he started, "–despite your best attempts to harm my people and my men. Answer my questions with truth and without deceit, and you will be spared. Say nothing, and your life is forfeit."

The Dunlendings did not respond.

Éomer caught Éothain's attention, and without a word his squire understood. Never releasing his grip, he yanked the restrained Dunlending away from the hall; accompanied by shouts that, even if the words were incomprehensible, they knew to be curses. Horrible snarls and screams echoed across the walls for many long moments after. The trembling man, flanked by a guard on each side and then the only hillman still in the hall, had peered up from the floor as his companion was dragged away. "Now, then," Éomer said, "What can _you_ tell me?"

It was to great wails and many more incomprehensible mutterings, that they finally came to some resemblance of understanding. Their captive knew very little, and he could tell them even less, but the Ranger had been right in that they came from the west. Passing a great river, deep and cold from its mouth in the high peaks; many drowned in their passing, and through a deep valley in the deepest dark. A black tooth, horrible to behold, and a lot of hurrying. Open plains, trees and more trees. Old. _Whispering._ Another river. Riders, cornered, killed. They ate the horses.

A shadow had passed over Éomer's face; then it went deathly white the longer the Dunlending spoke. Misery and ruination was upon them. When he had finally heard enough, he waved off his guards to take away the hillman, and he was left in solitude with his thoughts. The fear, that fell upon him, weighed his mind. Heavy and chilling. Maybe he had felt it, not knowing it sooner; all his concerns, restless and sleepless nights, were heralding the coming storm. He had listened with only one ear, and now the storm bore down upon them.

He sat upon the high seat for a long while, silent, his head bowed.

But for this choice he could recall no counsel. Saruman was a wizard, reckoned to be great and powerful. _A clever snake._ Never before had he troubled his neighbours, but rather given council, polite and always eager to listen to the plight of others. There was but a small hope that the Dunlendings had passed, unseen, in the darkest of hours beneath the shadow of Orthanc. Slipped by, unnoticed even by a wizard in his own territory. But Éomer did not believe it.

This was not a matter he alone could handle.

And so, he decided to continue as he had first planned. On the morrow and with the light of dawn, Éomer would ride with his Éored to seek out his cousin; together they would know what to do. Standing alone against sorcery was nought but a bitter end. He fell to deep thoughts, brow furrowed and looking ahead into the dim nothing, and there he sat until the first light of morning came outside. He found no sleep, for he wished it not, even when the villagers of Aldburg woke. Éothain came shortly after, but stood quietly by his lord's side; wordlessly. Waiting for command.

At last Éomer rose from the seat. "It is long since there was peace in these lands," he said, stepping down from the dais and, with the other man at his side, walked towards the doors. His gloved hand rested upon the hilt of his sword. "And I fear many years will pass before we have peace again." The cold dawn greeted them, and the air was clear; the Marshal saw the great green plains, the rolling hills stretching league upon league ahead, before he looked at his village. His home.

The thatched roofs glowed golden, and the houses huddled close together. Children ran about with wooden swords in play. Men and women were about; carrying baskets of firewood or washings. The sun shone from a sky the deep blue of waning Autumn. All stopped to bow or curtsy as he passed, calling out greetings in clear voices with kindness to their lord.

Éomer had often made it a part of his duty to stop and exchange a few words, to treat his people with mutual respect, but his departure called for haste above all else. Already Firefoot stood waiting. He mounted, held up his hand in farewell to his watching people, then he rode out. The awaiting riders fell into place behind the Marshal, and they followed the road due west. Not long after Aldburg vanished between the cresting hills.

Many swift-running brooks crossed their path, water from the mountain-side on its way to swell the Entwash, splashing beneath their horses. His face was steeled, angered determination barely contained below the surface. Both anger and despair pushed him onward.

Through the Folde, and mile by mile the long road wound away.

With great oakwoods, climbing on the skirts of the hills under the shade of the mountains; through willow-thickets where Snowbourn flowed into the Entwash. Deep clefts carved in the rock by streams, or by narrow ravines where rough paths descended like steep stairs into the plain. In the light of midday, Éomer could see the Golden Hall of Meduseld, its light shining far over the land. Clear enough for them to see through the blue-green of Autumn's haze.

Briefly his heart ached for his sister; to see her fair and kind face, though often burdened with heavy thoughts in these darkened days, now plagued just as his own. Never would he tell her of his grim and joyless thoughts, for her mind was of no need for such in times of trouble. Éomer drew his gaze away from the great hall of Men. Éowyn would be safe still. He carried on, back straight and gaze steeled. And for as long as he drew breath, safe she would remain.

Mostly they passed, a blur through the green, with great haste.

Only once did they rest each day, and only when dusk fell into utter darkness and riding turned hazardous.

The nights grew ever colder. Éomer slept fitfully at best, and often he walked to and fro in camp or stood silently on the hilltop. Here he would watch the dawn grow slowly in the sky, bare and cloudless, until at last the sunrise came. He ate little, and spoke even less. Time and again he found the road ahead an unhappy path to follow, leading him to his an unknown fate, and he could see little but death ahead.

The concerned looks rested upon him throughout the days, but Éothain remained quiet, only ever allowing a sigh of exasperation to escape his pursed lips.

Their lord was lost to deep and dark ponderings.

It was three days after their departure from Aldburg, and less than ten miles from his cousin's base in Helm's Deep, when Éomer finally turned to his squire. The long, drawn-out sigh had been carried far on the wind, unmistakable, although Éothain had paid great attention to the detailed stitches on his gloves. Pretending nothing had happened. Much rather than returning the look from the Marshal that was leveled his way. "While I am your lord, you are also an old and dear friend to me," Éomer said. "Let me hear it, then, and be done with it!"

"We need you, my lord. The men – and our people, _need_ you." Éothain began, though not without hesitation clear in his voice. The subject was not a happy one for either part. There was much noise about them; the great host of heavy horses thundered in his ears, and a gale wind howled across the flat lands of the Westemnet. His words could be heard by no other. There were but rocks and grass as far as the eye could see and further still. "We need you fit to lead us."

Éomer turned his face aside, watching the open skies with a brow furrowed in deep thought. It would not be long before the foothills would shimmer into view, dark stone against the white-blue haze of the mountain's sides, reaching to the tall horizon. The sun was clear and high. "And am I not?" The Marshal asked wryly, now returning his squire's look with half a smile. Éomer could well understand the concerns of the other man.

"Those were most certainly not my words," Éothain hastily said. "Though what troubles me is that you do not sleep, nor eat for that matter. An unwell body addles the mind as well as any poison could, and a warrior must be well in both, _if_ he wishes to survive in battle. Do you not believe the same?" The words were true, and Éomer knew well how the last days had passed in a way he did neither wish nor ask for. But the worry that forced sleeplessness upon him was not so easily cast aside.

He drew a deep breath. "I shall rest," Éomer replied, "but only after I meet with my cousin. More people must know what we know, for this is not a matter that can be handled alone. With wise council I believe the weight upon my shoulders will lessen. Until I have shared this burden, then I fear sleep shall continue to evade me."

Éothain pursed his lips beneath the shadow of his helmet, though he gave a solemn nod of understanding. "Some food, then?"

"You sound like my mother!" Éomer laughed at the thought. "Will you scold me as well if I do not eat my greens?"

Both men found a sudden and great amusement in their conversation, one that had previously been so grim, and so it was with mirthful laughter that the deep valley gorge came into view ahead. The shadowed dale was encircled by a trench and rampart, and here banners twisted in the winds of the mountain. The white horse danced across green fields, as guards upon the battlement saw the riders approach in the distance. Éomer and his Éored turned upon the straight road to the gate; his spear glistened in the sun, raised to greet his kin, and joyous shouts came swift in return.

Éomer slowed his horse.

Hooves thundered over the boardwalk and through the earthen wall. Men ran to stand by the path to see the riders pass, bowing their heads in greeting to the Marshal. His eyes swiftly took in the fortification; many barrels filled with arrows stood upon the top of the wall, and spears and swords lined the steps leading upwards. Horses were well-rested in their stables, ready to depart with haste for the Hornburg if news of an attack came to the Dike. Here was the first defense of the Westfold.

They left behind Helm's Dike, and a quarter mile later the large rampart of solid stone blocked the valley; some twenty feet in height, the Deeping Wall fenced in the castle beyond. In the shadow of Thrihyrne, where no enemy had ever set foot inside; in a long file they carried on. Following the long causeway, winding its way up to the great gate of the fortress itself, and soldiers moved aside with haste to make room.

Éomer was then met by a familiar face, as a tall man stepped out to meet him.

He jumped from the saddle and walked to meet the only prince of Rohan. "Théodred," Éomer smiled, albeit with tired weariness in his steps. The cut in his leg ached once more. "I greet you! How good it is to see you."

With arms outstretched, they embraced with much joy – for they had been close both when Éomer had been but a child, and now as adults. "And I greet you! What brings you here, cousin?" Théodred asked, pulling away before placing his hand on Éomer's shoulder. Strong fingers squeezed down. His keen and wise eyes flickered over the Marshal, gaze missing nothing, but then quickly turned to the riders behind them. At the sight his brow furrowed. "Has my father sent you?"

"I bring tidings," Éomer replied as he removed the horse-tailed helmet, allowing Éothain to take it from him. "Though not from the king. And also, I think it best we take this conversation inside. In _private_. I have much to share with you, cousin."

Théodred gave a brisk nod. "Yes, of course."

The pair began to walk to the gate, leading them inside the Hornburg.

"I will have my aides see to your men – for how long do you plan to stay with us?"

"I do not know. But we have ridden far and without much respite. We parted from Aldburg some days ago, and we have not had time for proper rest since then. Our journey required haste." Éomer rubbed his brow. "My men are well-deserving of a meal and a place to sleep." The prince faltered at the news, eyebrows raised and newfound concern flashed across his features. It had been a long ride.

But with practiced ease the worry was then masked; commands were given out to see to the newly arrived Éored and their horses, and then the cousins stepped through the gate under the eyes of tall watchmen. Inside it seemed dark and warm compared to the Autumn chill outside, and many torches lined the walls of the great and deep chamber.

Éomer pulled the gloves from his hands and tucked them into his belt, feeling heat prickle his skin. Mighty pillars upheld the stone roof, carved from the very mountain many ages ago, and beams of sun fell in glimmering shafts from the eastern windows high upon the wall. Steps led away, winding up and further up to what he knew to be the great tall tower, where the horn of Helm Hammerhand could be found. Others led down to cellars packed to a full with provisions for any long siege. But the prince and the Marshal followed an open corridor leading straight ahead on an even path.

At first they came to a large and well-lit hall. Wood-fire burned upon the hearth in its centre, and green banners hung upon the far wall over the raised dais. Women and men of the keep milled about here, busy at work for the approach of evening, but they paused and bowed as the lords entered and passed. A quiet murmur welled up.

Though Théodred did not walk to the gilded chair upon the dais, the place for the lord of Helm's Deep, and instead Éomer was led through a narrow way off to the side. They went with swift and purposeful strides, and neither spoke despite finding themselves alone in the hallway. It had been clear that the Third Marshal of the Riddermark had not arrived with good news. Fewer fires burned here and the light dimmed about them. The stones were dark and cold.

Éomer's eyes grew accustomed.

Their steps resounded in the quiet.

They then came to a door, bolted and locked, and the prince unfastened a key from his belt.

On great hinges the door swung slowly inwards; stepping inside Théodred's private chambers the tautness in his shoulders waned, and Éomer breathed deeply. He took a seat opposite his cousin, draping his long and travel-worn cloak across his leg and unfastened Gúthwinë; the sword was placed by his side, tip against the dark stones gleaming dully in the firelight. Théodred mirrored his actions, but then leaned forward with eager determination and rested his chin in hand. His keen eyes regarded Éomer sharply.

"I fear that with me come evils worse than ever before," Éomer spoke gravely. "What I have seen in this last week has left my heart heavy with burdens. I have sought no other council but yours – not even the King's – for this matter is of great and grave importance. If it proves to be _true_. And so I have come to you in haste, hoping that together we shall cast some light on this matter."

Théodred ran his thumb across the stubble on his chin, dark eyes locked on Éomer's. "If swiftness is required, cousin, then I ask that you speak plainly. What has happened?"

And so it was, that Éomer told everything; all he could remember, down to even the smallest of details – even if they to others would have seemed insignificant, to the prince they were not. His missing scouts, and the unease that had hung heavy over him for many days. The village raid. The second and larger host. He told Théodred of the Ranger from the North, and what she thought of the tracks pointing westward. But most important were the garbled words of the captive Dunlending. A large, black tooth in the darkness of night.

Both had they stood in the shadow of Orthanc.

They knew well of what he spoke.

Théodred asked many questions, and as time passed from minutes to hours, his face darkened with concern. With all Éomer had told, he came to much the same conclusion as the Marshal. "This is truly the tale of a horrible betrayal, yet we hold only little proof to your claim." The prince held up a hand, halting Éomer from speaking. "I believe you, for I know the depths of your loyalty, and no such host of hillmen has passed by my watch. We have not slackened our duties."

He stood, and with hands clasped behind his back Théodred paced across the floor. In their long discussion, many maps had been spread across the table between them, all drawn in great detail; every hillock and creak and forest, the dust-trails only stepped by herdsmen and the great roads between cities. Éomer trailed a hand over the Misty Mountains, pausing at the Gap of Rohan, when he finally spoke. "Yet," he said carefully, quietly, with a scowl as he understood his cousin's concerns. "It is not enough."

"No," Théodred replied and returned to his seat. Though he remained standing, fingers grasping the back of the chair tightly; Éomer saw the knuckles become white. "How easy it would be to turn the Dunlending's words against our claim. To wave it off, _discard_ our words as the Great Enemy's plan to turn allies against one another. Lies to taint the honourable reputation of Saruman!" A hand hammered against the wooden chair, and the noise resounded in the stillness and further into the floor.

Long moments of silence fell over the cousins.

Éomer's mind was but a tangled mess, and he struggled to grab hold of fleeting thoughts to piece together wisdom. Such little power they held against silver tongues and wizardry. "I will leave half my Éored here under your command," he finally said. Resolution seeped into his voice. There was not much else they could do, and so the only choice was to strengthen their first line of defense against a storm they knew would hit; hard, swift, and ruthless. Though, the bigger question was _when_.

"I cannot take your riders," Théodred said with dejection; he sat down, shoulders slumped in defeat and a sigh escaped him. "You have less men than I would prefer as is in the Folde. I refuse to cripple your forces further, even if they could be useful here. You need them as much as I do."

"With how things are now _you_ need them." Their gazes met. Éomer understood well, for long it had been believed that the danger would come from the East. Gondor could not hold out forever; and then a swarm of evil and filth would be upon Rohan, black blood spilling from the putrid mouth of Mordor. His men would be the first to ride out and meet them, with riders and horns sounding the attack from the gates of Aldburg.

A small force, lessened in their numbers, would be easily crushed. _Swallowed in a sea of horrors._

But perhaps now war would be upon them long before the line of Gondor broke, and from a side they had never expected. _No,_ Éomer could spare some men if it meant the protection of the Westfold. Neither decision would be perfect either way they twisted and turned it, or even close to adequate, and it would leave their defenses spread thin over vast expanses. Truly, they were caught between the hammer and the anvil; and the first strike would fall hard.

"I will hold the Folde," Éomer said. Stubborn dertermination clear in his voice, and he raised his head. "If further proof is found of Saruman's deceit, you can request aid from the king. And you can have my men returned to my side – if you do not have use of them by that time." He feared they would be much needed. Théodred sat quietly. Deep in thought, leaving his younger cousin time to think; his remaining men would be pushed to the limit in ever-vigilant patrols.

There were yet no enemies from the North, for the inhospitable lands of Rhovanion stretched far beyond the Anduin, and still orcs never ventured far from the Great River. No beasts came from the Grey Mountains; the old forest of Elves, deep and dark and full of ancient magic, was an impossible wall to climb for any outsider. But still from the Dagorlad to the Undeeps, an army could pass with little resistance into Rohan – they could not turn a blind eye to the Wold. But neither could the eastern way be left unguarded. Éomer drew a hand across his face, gaze once more returning to the maps.

Their best chances would be to convince the king of Saruman's betrayal. They could then call upon the combined forces of the Riddermark; strike before the wizard came to full power. Bring down the tower of Saruman the White. But with no proof their words would fall on deaf ears. There was no denying it – the king was growing old and stubborn in his ways, leaving little room for advice from the outside. Not even from the Marshals tasked with the protection of the lands, and neither from the king's own son. Always advisors whispered words of peace and quiet. _All was well_. Éomer's brow furrowed.

_When has the king last left Edoras?_

Théodred rose. "Come," he said, "I shall have a room prepared for you. Perhaps with some sleep our minds will be clearer? I shall have my aides gathered tomorrow, and we will hear what they have to say on this matter. But you have ridden far and hard, and you must rest." Yet Éomer made no motion to stand, and rather looked up with a puzzled expression at the sudden turn of events. "Many would say it certainly is best to decide what to do at once, that efforts best idleness, though I much rather believe a quiet time to think is of value now."

The prince gave a smile, thin and weary yet not without mirth.

With a shake of his head, Éomer wondered if not Théored and Éothain had joined forces in their badgering, yet still he followed his cousin out of the chamber with little reluctance. His body ached, and the wound in his leg pulsed; tremors ran through his veins, making his walk slow and careful. It would have to be redressed. _Rest would be_ _welcome,_ he thought with a grim frown, and there was no part of him that did not feel stretched. Tired, exhausted by the all that had happened. Perhaps he would wake in the morning with a clear head?

It was of no surprise for Éomer that sleep claimed him swiftly after. Bidding his cousin a good night, despite the news of vile betrayal the Marshal had brought in with him, he found the bed a warm welcome. Heat surrounded him, muddling his already unclear thoughts, and then all became dark as he drifted off. Weariness and exhaustion made his sleep without dreams, and some clarity came to him with the first light of morning.

He watched from his room as the first orange rays peered over the edge of the rampart and the parting of clouds. Long shadows crawled with haste over dark stones, growing ever thinner with the sun's climb over the mountain spurs; escaping into narrow nooks and crevices. Birds; swallows and dunnocks, took to the clear skies as little swirling brown dots. Éomer sat for a while and watched, eyes looking both near and far. Over the open stretches before the Deepening Wall, and further still to the green plains of Rohan where all was yet quiet.

Only few trees stood scattered across the landscape, lonesome figures cast in the colours of Autumn; orange, yellow, and red beads strewn over greens, and their leaves shone brightly in the sun as if on fire. When finally he was ready, Éomer fastened his weapons and found the familiar weight calming, for once more dark thoughts seeped into his mind. Chilling whispers. There was little reason to wear his heavy armor, for Helm's Deep was safe, and so he left it behind while the door closed shut after him. The corridor was without windows, but many torches lined the walls and illuminated his path through the keep.

Éomer knew the way. Many times before had he visited Helm's Deep, and, even if he had not, then his warrior's mind could easily retrace his steps from the evening before. There was a small decline in the path, soon giving way to steps leading him down to the lower levels. Noise rose up ahead of him, cast against the stone walls; soon he could hear many speaking all at once. He took to following the sounds the rest of the way, until he came to the great hall they had passed through upon his arrival.

The air was warm from the great hearth burning, and many tables were occupied by both women and men; others moved about, serving food and drink for those gathered, or stoked the fire. And upon the dais, surrounded by armed and grey-haired men, sat Théodred in deep deliberation with a dozen counsellors. As he approached, the prince looked up and welcomed Éomer to a seat by his side. With a nod at the gathered, clasping hands with those closest to him, he sat down at the table that had been prepared. Éomer recognized most faces.

"I have said very little still," Théodred spoke quietly in his ear, with eyes trained on the men around them. "They now know of the Dunlendings' raid and the interrogation, and I would like for them to draw their own conclusions. _Then_ , we shall hear if we think alike."

Éomer accepted the offered bowl of stew and a mug of clear, honeyed ale. He sat mostly and listened, speaking only when they asked for details of the attack or the words of his captives; the food warmed his stomach, and a hunger, one he had not noticed earlier, was gratified. His eyes trailed over the hall, watching young boys weave between the legs of their fathers in an attempt at a scuffle; throwing about their fists and scrawny legs flailing. A smile ran across his lips when they were pulled apart in exasperated ease.

The long discussion drew at length to an end around him, just as he came to empty another bowl of vegetables and lamb.

If not for the fact that both the prince and his aides stood to leave, Éomer could have most likely stayed for another serving. But instead Éomer followed by Théodred's side out of the hall. Again, he was led through dim corridors and winding stairs going further and further up, until they came to another large room; many windows lined the walls, and around him a view opened up to the surrounding lands. He could see far to all sides. It was but a small line of grey, yet the white-tipped peaks of the Misty Mountains were discernable in the haze of early morning to the northeast. Mostly a sea of green stretched unending on all sides part from the dark stones of the Dike.

Éomer remained by the window, hands clasped behind his back, as the others milled inside.

In the middle of the room stood a table, flanked by chairs on all sides; maps had been laid out at an earlier time, for often Théodred held his council here. Now the largest map was pulled out and placed where all could see. The men gathered around it, finding seats as they still mumbled briskly amongst each other with low voices. A thrum of anxious expectancy was heavy in the air; then the prince raised a hand and all immediately quietened about him. "Now is the hour upon which I seek your council," Théodred said, looking around with solemn eyes and with hands pressed down against the table.

His straight back seemed heavy with burden.

He leaned forward, keen eyes watchful as they lingered in turn on the gathered.

"You have heard all, as I have, from my cousin's report. Tell me your verdict."

Many voices shared their agreement and dissent all at once, mumbled to a mass of words and shouts; a heavy sense of disbelief clung to most of the prince's advisors, and only few were fast to believe the betrayal of Saruman. It was preposterous; allegations with no claim in _attested_ proof, for surely the jumbled words of a savage – more _beast_ than _Man_ – rang false. Spoken to save its own hide from death in a land far from home. Éomer's face hardened at their words. A blindness smothered his people, even those tasked to see clearly in their darkest hour, yet still they remained in denial!

Brushing aside a threat both imminent and dreadful.

The words spoken about the Ranger were no less harsh than those meant for the Dunlending. Just as _wild_ and _unwelcome._ A straggler with no rightful dealings in their lands; grim-faced and secretive thieves in the dark, more likely spies of the Enemy than protectors of the peace. While his first thoughts of the woman had been much the same, Éomer took a step forward at their dishonourable utterings. She had proven herself! She had come to the aid of the village, _saved_ his people when the Rohirrim had come too late, but such deeds were blatantly overlooked. Théodred turned, sending a long and hard look at him, and Éomer bristled.

Yet still he paused. _Blind old men,_ he thought, teeth ground together, _mollified by falsehoods and with hope for a peace long-gone._

Was he truly destined to take a stand alone? Were they all complacent in their way of life? _No._ His gaze fell on the straigthened back of his cousin, proud and unbending, as the prince raised a hand for silence. Still there remained those wise enough to see the truth, and though they were few in numbers Éomer was not alone to meet the challenge. Some had voiced an agreement, albeit laced with gloom, that surely all pointed to the White Wizard.

"Enough." Once the quiet had settled, the prince turned to a scarred and familiar face by his side. "What say you, Grimbold? You have much remained silent."

The rider – valiant captain under the Second Marshal – paused as if to deliberate an answer. His hair had whitened since Éomer had last seen him, streaking the blond tresses, but his gaze remained steeled. Wise beneath deeply set brows. "There have been no sightings of Dunlendings around my encampment, nor has my scouts reported any tracks leading through the region for many months." He moved an open, gloved hand across the map before pausing at the Gap of Rohan. "We have seen none cross the Isen and Adorn," he said carefully, still weaving deftly around a proper response.

Théodred considered his words for a short while. "Neither have I – nor Erkenbrand," he then said, nodding to another, larger, man across the table. "And I do not believe any other at this table has willingly let enemies into our lands!"

A murmur followed, as the assembled roused and rallied at the prince's words. They could not believe the notion of treachery, for all were they proud men of Rohan. Warriors. "I know the skill and loyalty of my men," Grimbold carried on, shifting as he leaned back in his seat to look at the gathered. "They have not passed our defense. Perhaps we _should_ look to our neighbours, for so long held in high regard and trusted, now rather with wariness. It is best we keep our horses rested and our watch vigilant, but remember; the hasty stroke goes oft astray."

The prince drew a hand across his brow. "So we come to it in the end," he said quietly, but then he declared no more.


	9. Dark Against the Skies

There had been made no end to the discussion; no plan to abide by, no certain orders to follow; nothing more than an agreement to _watch_. Wait and watch. For, as Théodred had then put it, a hidden enemy felt safe in the shadows, weaving deceit and lies with cunning moves, and the Wizard would not easily be drawn from hiding. They had yet no solid proof to force Saruman's hand into tangible action. But Grimbold's words were sound – the dealings of Isengard would no longer go unnoticed by the riders of Rohan, _that_ , at least, they had agreed upon.

When Théodred felt nothing more was to be said on the matter, he then dismissed his advisors. As the heavy door had closed shut behind them, the prince finally found a seat; his dark eyes followed Éomer's pacings about the room, though neither of them spoke for a while. There was not much to be said, Éomer sensed. So the sun climbed further above the blackened walls of stone, and a warm glow slanted through the windows until the room was bathed in golden light. His boots sounded heavy against the floor as he paced back and forth in deep contemplation.

For a while they remained, until, at length, restlessness overpowered all other dismal thoughts. Staying idle did not sit well with Éomer, and the great and open grasslands called to him; for the cool air to brush against his face, to hear the gale winds howl, and the earth rumbling beneath the hooves of his horse. There was a dire need to be away, and with haste, so that all grim and horrid thoughts were swept from his mind. Swallowed by the wild freedom on the plains. He was a warrior, first and foremost, and what could not be handled by the tip of his sword was an unwelcome struggle.

And so it was that the Marshals rode from Helm's Deep, leading a small company of riders with swiftness forward, as they followed the road from the Gate to the Dike. In some other time and place Éomer might have been wholly pleased, but in the pit of his stomach ever-constant concern gnawed; a growth festering, malignant and hideous. While they had departed from the keep to take in the surrounding lands about Helm's Deep, they all looked with watchful eyes to the horizon. His ears and eyes startled by any sound. Their armour was heavy and their weapons sharp.

Side by side, Éomer and Théodred rode.

When they were but a mile beyond the fortified wall they slackened their pace a little. The mountain lay behind them, and ahead the plains stretched green in the sun of late midday. Dark thickets lay on the eastward flank, thin outcropses of trees growing in clusters where small streams chuckled down from the stony peaks. Melted waters that with Winter would still. The weather remained fair, and the chill wind held in the west; yet still the gloom in his heart could not be borne away despite the cold gales. He forced his downcast eyes away from the ground, instead looking out over the blue and white-dotted sky and the rolling hills.

The first foothills shimmered into view far ahead, painted hues of purple by the bright glow of the sun. For a while they followed the well-trodden road as it wound on through the landscape, but soon they made for a path that cut straight west. His thoughts turned once more to his sister, so far from his side, in Edoras; amongst noble ladies of court, bound by duty and without much freedom for herself, and he could not help but wonder if not Éowyn missed the clean air. To be with her brother and cousin, as they had when they were but children.

He knew she was too stubborn and proud to ever admit such thoughts; her duty was by the side of the king, even if her heart drew her elsewhere. To be wild and free once more.

Éomer looked to the prince by his side. Thirteen years lay between them, and many a time he had followed Théodred to the training rings, or watched the young man ride horses with swiftness and skill. Of course Éowyn had trailed along, proving a great nuisance in her attempts to not be left out, and more than once had she been found kicking and crying in her room.

Door locked and key gone.

Yet neither had he shied away from using her to nick candied apples and sweet bread from the kitchen, where only a smaller, more nimble body could fit through the window-hatch. Then she had been of great use. Together, in awe they had watched Théodred fight with sword and shield in sparring, and their cousin had welcomed them both to train with him. With mirth he had laughed whenever Éowyn came out victorious over her older brother – even if Éomer insistantly claimed it either a fluke or a purposeful loss on his side.

The corner of his mouth twitched at the thought.

He could not help but wish to return; to return to times long gone, where each day was untroubled by concerns for the future. They passed through upland grass and heaths, and the wide flats stretched continuously on ahead of them. It was less than a day's journey to the Fords of Isen, the only place to cross the river south of Isengard, but whether the company would carry on so far had not been discussed. The sky was darkening to the east, and light clouds were cast with grey. Éomer wished to see for himself what was afoot at Isengard, in the shadow of the Misty Mountains, but something warned him against pressing further.

As the thought came to him he gave a shout, and the riders about him came to a swift halt at the sudden command. They stood upon a high ridge, giving them a clear view to all sides. The prince drew his horse close to Firefoot, gaze sweeping across the plains, before he spoke. "What do you see?"

Éomer missed something. He had traveled through the Westfold in many seasons; no folk of Rohan dwelled here now, too close to the unclaimed realms about the mountain range, but many other creatures lived there at all times. Especially birds and small beasts. Yet now all things were quiet apart from the riders and their horses around him. An eerie silence lingered. He felt as if there was no sound for many miles about them. He did not understand it, except for a clear sense of unease and watchfulness that had drawn him to a halt.

The mere swish of Firefoot's tail and the hoof-stomps against the soft mud became loud noises in his ears.

Dead silence was around him, and over all hung a clear blue sky. "It is _too_ quiet," Éomer said. He gazed intently at the sky, and before long he could see what was approaching. Away in the West a dark patch appeared, and grew, and drove east like flying smoke on the wind. Yet the wind blew against them from the northwest. The riders stood together, fencing in their prince as spears and bows were ready. Flocks of birds, flying at great speed, came wheeling and circling, and traversing all the land as if they were searching for something.

They were steadily drawing nearer, and as if they moved with one single mind the birds now came straight towards them. A dense shadow followed the flock, passing darkly over the ground below. The creatures passed overhead, harsh croaks tearing through the silence; dipping low, barely out of reach from the riders, and large wings beat upon the wind. The sound roared in his ears, as the swarm carried on for many long moments, circling them. Then, all at once, they veered off with renewed haste.

The riders watched them, shoulders tense and grips tight on their spears, and barely did they dare to breathe until the birds had dwindled into the distance. The sky was clear once again. The birds disappeared from sight. Flying the straight way to _Nan Curunír_. Whispered voices broke out around Éomer, speaking of wizardry and omens of ill, and the quiet voices made the ground seem to echo. Again a silence fell upon the lands around them. There was no life to be found, as if something – something malicious – had driven it away.

And now that evil had turned its gaze on them. The urge to turn and flee came to the riders, clutching at their hearts with an icy grip; smothering bravery, until even the horses tossed and neighed in rising terror. Éomer met Théodred's gaze. There was no need for words between them. The prince raised his spear and pointed its tip east, before he turned his great steed around. Away from the watchful eyes of Isengard. His riders fell into place around and behind him, drawing close as they thundered across the plains with haste. Hearts chilled.

It took many long moments before the fear left them, though they still felt uneasy and their minds were wary. Only when the high place, where they had halted, stood far behind them did Théodred lessen his pace. They passed along the edge of a long rock-wall, bathing them in shadow, and Éomer's mind turned to the strange and unnerving sight of the birds. They were not native to the lands of Rohan.

The large, black crows were found only in the deep and dark places of the Entwood, under the eastern flanks of the rocky range, and beyond the Misty Mountains to the west. _In Dunland_. Never before had he fled from the mere sight of birds, and deep in his heart he knew it was not the beasts that made them turn in fear. It was the hidden hand that controlled them, a whisper in the air, but a quiet voice laced with sorcery.

Dismal thoughts and cheerless silence followed the company of riders throughout the last leg of their journey. Spirits broken. The sun became veiled by dark clouds, now drifting in with the wind, and a promise of rain was heavy in the air. A formless grey under the coming of night, and a chill wind blew. Once, looking back across his shoulder, as if some prickle of the skin told him that he was being watched, Éomer caught a glimpse of a small shape upon the hilltop. Whether he truly saw it, or it was but a shimmer of disarrayed thoughts, he could not tell.

When he looked again, it was gone.

Éomer spoke not of it, for the riders were burdened enough. Though the feeling of being watched followed him all the way until the Dike came into view ahead, and further still it lingered over him. Relief was palpable on the men's faces when they passed beneath the gate. A collective breath released as it shut closed behind them. Upon the last stretch back to the Hornburg, heavy droplets began to fall. At first it was but a light drizzle, cold against his face, but soon it came down hard; beating down on them, soaked into their cloaks as the ground turned to slippery mud. Firefoot's coat glistened silver.

Drenched they came to the open courtyard. Éomer held Théodred's gaze for a moment in silence; the prince looked harrowed, grim-faced, but then his features grew gentler. With that they turned to the other riders, who were still awaiting orders with despondency. Their armour was dark with rain. "There can be no doubt," Théodred spoke quietly as his men drew closer. "Some wickedness is at large. It has crossed the Fords of Isen and entered our lands. Strange powers have our enemies, perhaps, but forget not this." His eyes gleamed and his voice became louder. "The courage of the Eorlingas will not break, nor ever yield, for as long as we can draw weapons! As long as there is breath in our lungs."

The prince dismounted, and a hushed quiet lay about them.

"We will _not_ yield," the prince said, gloved hand rested against his horse only briefly, before disappearing inside the keep.

Knowing well the look of steeled determination on his cousin's face, Éomer took to sorting out the men. "Take rest," he ordered, "Speak not of what you have seen this day. It was naught but crows sent to frighten us; but our enemies forget the strength of the Rohirrim. Do not fear what you saw! Believe in the courage of your hearts." He looked from one to the next; some only briefly, and for others he held their gazes long enough for the terror to change to a clear resolve. Théodred's voice resounded in his head. Birds and tricks of a wizard had made them turn tail, like a whimpering dog beaten, and the shame was washed away by anger.

In the end, the men who were gathered round him broke up into smaller groups, and went off this way and that. Soon they vanished into the shadows of the Hornburg. Éomer slipped out of the saddle, took Firefoot by the reins, and pulled the horse off with him to the stables. The dark stones beneath his feet were glossy, slippery from the rain; a heavy downpour that seemed to grow steadily, until it became hard to see more than an arm's length ahead. The sound roared in his ears, and his boots splashed as he waded through the forming puddles.

For a while he stood, mind blank, in the damp and dimly lit stall; droplets trickled off his brow as he meticulously and unconsciously groomed the horse. He had waved off the stable-hand that had come to assist. His fingers trailed the mud-covered hooves, picking out small pebbles lodged in the iron shoes. Firefoot stood patiently waiting, motionless except for the soft movements of his large head as it picked through fresh oats, and appeared keen to enjoy the attention. Éomer's fingers combed through the soft mane, stalling when he came into contact with rough, unmanageable tangles; pulling, easing, allowing just the right amount of preasure, his thoughts began weaving fretful wanderings once more.

Éomer had gone through all the steps, and was midway through cleaning the horse-shoes once more, when a sound alerted him to another's presence. Easing Firefoot's hoof to the ground, he stood and turned to look at the young stableboy in the doorway. He appeared drenched and out of breath, shoulders heaving with great effort as if from running. "My lord," the boy said. Then he bowed quickly. "A rider at the gate to the Dike asked for entry. He is foreign to the wardens, and to these lands, and he urged to speak with one in command when the road was barred to him."

Brow furrowed, Éomer nodded shortly; brushed his palm across the flat forehead, from the ears to the muzzle, of Firefoot before stepping out of the stables. The rain came steadily down still, an unending veil of grey, but the pale blue of the sky had turned darker. His time spent with his horse had been longer than first expected, and now the sun had set beyond the western ridges of the mountain. The night was young and cold.

Following the boy across the square, bringing his cloak closer around his shoulders for warmth, Éomer looked to the archway and the open gate. There, sheltered and with hands held forward to the flames of the brazier, stood a figure hidden by the shadows. Surrounding him were two tall, mail-clad guards; spears gripped tightly as they flanked the traveler in the narrow space. Upon the Marshal's approach, the man – for it was a young man, with keen and clear grey eyes – looked up and met his gaze evenly. Raven hair clung to his forehead, dripping down his nose and cheeks, and his dark fabrics, green and grey, were flecked with mud and rain. His woolen cloak was grey as stone.

The face was young, still with traces of boyhood; with fluid movements he raised his arm, yet quickly stilled when the guards stiffened to attention, and instead allowed it to fall to his side once more. "My lord," he said with a voice both deep and buoyant, "I come not here to bring trouble, and I left my weapons with my companions at the Dike." He smiled, making it easy in the firelight for Éomer to see many white scars running across his face. The young man could be no more than twenty, yet clearly he had seen many a battle in his short life.

Éomer drew to a halt, regarding the stranger with quiet curiosity, and the rain lessened on his back.

"Tell me then, wanderer in the Riddermark, what brings you to our lands?" He spoke.

The boy, this time with greater care, raised a hand to the collar of his cloak. "My name is Brenion. My companions and I come from the far North," he said and then, much to Éomer's astonishment, drew forth a very familiar brooch clasped to the cloak into view; the silver star shone and flickered as if lit by a sudden flame. But just as quickly the light dimmed and the star faded, returning to the folds of his cloak. "We search for our missing kin and have traveled for many days. Have you seen one bearing a star of the North here in the Riddermark?"

At first Éomer did not speak. His thoughts turned to the Ranger, for surely they searched for her; a week had soon passed since he saw her disappear eastbound, over the plains of the Eastfold until the horse and rider were swallowed by the green hills. Alone she had traveled, and he had heard nothing of companions following after. Although it was clear that _she_ was following, hunting, for something or someone. Uncertainty came to his mind; could he trust this cloaked stranger, bearing the mark of the Rangers?

There was no lie to see in the boy's face, but the servants of the Enemy often wore the mask of innocence. The woman proved to be an ally through her actions, but the one standing before him now had not. "What makes you believe your kin has passed the Fords into our land?"

This time it was the Ranger's turn to hesitate, and his mouth twisted into a thin, white line. Grey eyes flickered before settling on the ground. Everything around them seemed still. Waiting. "I cannot say more of our purpose, except that the one we follow requires our aid. We bring no malice to your people, my lord, and only wish to pass through without any trouble. And, if possible, _unseen_ ; though the leader of my company prefered to ask first for permission."

The answer rang in his head, echoes of words he had heard before, and the proud woman came clear to his mind's eye. Much the same was said when Éomer had questioned her. It reassured him, and he prayed to Béma that his decision was right. "There has been no sightings of Rangers east of the Isen for many years," Éomer answered. "She did not pass by Helm's Deep."

It took the boy – Brenion – several long moments, before the words of the Marshal settled and the meaning behind them became clear.

Then his head snapped up, and hope was in his face and voice. " _She_?" It was clear that the news was good and much welcome. "Then you have seen her, my lord? When? _Where_?"

"Indeed I have," Éomer replied, taken aback by the sudden eagerness in the Ranger's words. Almost bordering on hopeful desperation, and he wondered about the haste in which they sought out their female companion. He had found her to be young, truly, and perhaps she was not meant to travel alone in the wilderness? "But it was not in this region that our paths crossed. She had followed the banks of the Anduin, and when we parted ways it was less than a day's journey from the Mouths of the Entwash. That is now a week ago."

"So she managed the Pass of Imladris before the storm," Brenion mumbled, mostly to himself, then caught Éomer's gaze. "Did she tell you of her destination?"

"Nay. She was following another on horseback, heading for Anórien, but that is all I know."

The Ranger asked many questions; how the Marshal came to meet her, and if she was injured or well at health? Clearly he was greatly concerned for his kin, and it seemed they had ridden hard and far after her departure. "A great storm came upon us on the High Pass, forcing us to turn away until the skies became clear. It was then that we lost sight of her trail." He brushed wet hair from his face. "We left a group there, to climb the Misty Mountains and take the road along the Anduin, while my companions and I went south."

At this Éomer listened intently, for what was recounted proved useful to his own plight. The journey would have taken the Rangers through the wilderness following the mountain range. Unclaimed lands, _except_ for the most northern parts where the vicious hillmen dwelt. _What have they seen there?_ "You traversed the Isen? Did you come about anything amiss there beyond our borders?"

"I have never before seen the lands of _Enedwaith_ – what is now called Dunland in your tongue – but my elders found the air to be strange, indeed. Both bird and beast had grown silent, and the very hills felt hostile to us. We were watched and followed throughout the journey, though we could not see our pursuers; we slept very little at a time. But late one evening a roar came on the wind, swift approaching, like the thundering beat of many wings. _Crebain_ swept down over us, circling back and forth, and they only dispersed when we took branches to the fire."

Éomer nodded thoughtfully, but motioned for the Ranger to continue his tale.

"We saw them again just earlier today," he added. "But this time they were farther away from us and swooping down, much the same as they did to us, against something hidden by the hills. When we came closer there were many signs of horses in the mud, and we followed the path here. And that is my story recounted, my lord." The rain came down in grey sheets around them, hammering against the stones and battlements, unrelenting and ceaseless. Much had been said, leaving Éomer with many new thoughts.

"You have my gratitude, Ranger of the North," the Marshal replied. "Know that you and your companions are welcome to ride out the storm with us."

The grey cloak was drawn tight, and the white scars shone again as the Ranger grinned. He gave a swift bow. "Thank you, my lord, but I fear there is no time for rest! And soaked to the bone I already am, so the rain can do no more than what it already has. When you are wet, then you are wet! Haste is needed, and we must be away at once to find our kin. There is still a great distance between us if she left the Riddermark a week ago." Then he glanced to the skies. "Dawn is not far off."

So it was that the young Ranger slipped quietly into the night, a blurry figure of grey that soon disappeared in the haze. The air was heavy, still, and the first rumble of thunder echoed between the walls. Dawn may have been close, but the storm was with much strength left and would not soon wane. Day would be bleak and wet. Éomer stood for a while and watched, then finally he drew away from the flame and into the downpour. He stepped across the courtyard to the keep.

Much had to be done.


	10. The Greens of Ithilien

Day came pale from the East.

As the light grew it filtered through the leaves of the trees around the low-hidden dell. Pale-blue sky peeped among the moving branches, but the morning was still young and cold when Rell began again. Her back ached, likely from the root that had dug deeply into her hip throughout the night, and her walk was stiff. The Ranger pulled Luin along between the great, gnarled boles and over the slippery mossy ground, returning to the dust-path that still went on through the woods of Ithilien.

It was but an animal trail, trampled by hoofs of some creature over many years of use, and it had been difficult to find. Just as difficult it was to tread. She had left the path the evening before to seek shelter, but it was much easier to follow than to make her own way through the thick undergrowth, and throughout the last couple of days she had cleared quite a distance from the Anduin. Cair Andros – and further behind, Gondor and Rohan – would soon be but a distant, fleeting memory; swallowed in the greens of the forest.

The ground below was smooth and soft, and the thin clear voices of birds in the sky followed her.

While the first day in Ithilien had been accompanied with a heavy rainfall, leaving the forest swathed in fumes and mist obscuring her vision, now warmth encompassed the fair but deserted lands. So fair, Rell had almost forgotten Autumn had passed to Winter around her. For a while she had followed the road from Cair Andros, until discovering it had veered continuously northeast and drawn her further away from the bordering marshlands.

It then took her a while to find a clear path over stony hills, swerving back into the right direction where she now walked.

Throughout the grey morning she continued her lonesome journey, until at length Rell came to a long slope cutting straight west, hard-edged against the sky. It was covered only in few trees of holly and oak. Bare it stood. Day was opening in the sky, and a wide view of the forest became increasingly clear before her as she scaled the tall hill. Rell drew Luin to a halt, perched on top of the mound as she turned in the saddle; looking first back to the south, seeing small, thick-growing woods of fir and cedar, with wide glades among them. But then her gaze turned away and was met with dry winds, warm and harsh against her face.

The fences of Mordor stood as shadowed teeth, black and horrid, in the far horizon beyond leagues of green; still much further off, lost in the distance, but the sight chilled her heart and quickly made her turn away. She was glad the road took her west, _away_ from the land of many evils. The hill receded ahead, gentle slopes running down into dim hazes below, and the wind swerved off; now blowing in from the South. The Ranger was about to return to the cover of woods when it happened.

She paused. Strands of hair whipped about her face, but her nose twitched at a familiar smell carried on the wind. It was faint, masked by herbs and shrubs; the fresh dew of morning clung still to the air, mixing with asphodels and grass, but it was there nonetheless. Clear and deep. _Ash_.

More keenly this time, Rell looked across the treetops bathed in a pale sun. There was mostly green, interwoven with red and yellow as Autumn faded to Winter's chill, for as far as the eye could see. The early light was clear, sharp until almost blinding, and at first she saw nothing of alarm. Rell was about to guide Luin forward again, thinking it a flicker of her imagination, but then she caught sight of something. A thin spiral of blue-grey smoke, almost plain to see as it caught the sunlight, rising from a thicket below her.

At once her mind snapped into work, heart beating quickly in her chest.

She slipped from the saddle. Moving by instinct rather than thought. Light feet barely touched the mossy rocks before she slid down the slope, feet almost falling over one another, as she headed straight for the fire. Luin stood on the ridge, ears flat against its head, but remained motionless in response to its master's swift departure. The bow was pulled from her back, white-feathered arrow ready, and she went through tall fern and bushes. The bracken grew densely here, making her movement slow and difficult. Branches snatched at her clothes, small thorns prickling her skin until surely blood was drawn, but her attention was fixed on the shadows ahead.

She crept deeper into the fern.

The smell of smoke and ash grew stronger, and as the thicket thinned to reveal a small clearing ahead, Rell crouched to listen. Not long ago a cooking-fire had burned here, that was easy to see, but only scattered ashes and burnt turfs were left behind. The fire had been stamped out. Whoever had camped in the clearing during the night was nowhere to be seen. As her, they had continued with the arrival of morning. Yet they could not have been gone for long, not ventured far. Rell looked carefully to the trees.

Close by, just under the dappling shadow of the dark bay-trees, a shimmer in the grass caught her gaze as she scanned her surroundings. Rell drew back, slipping around while remaining hidden under the canopy of trees, and circled the clearing. Her ears were trained on any sound around her; birds scampered about in the branches, frightened, and there was a buzz of insects in the air. Nothing else caught her ear.

There were signs of boots in the clearing and around it, for the grass was trampled and bent flat, leading in and out between the boles. In a patch of mud Rell found clear indentations, and she crouched to take a closer look. The step had been light. _Certainly no orc's foot_ , she thought, for they were much heavier in their step; her brow furrowed, but then she carried on until she came to the other side. She halted and listened. The tracks were still fresh. With ears strained for any sound, an alertness seeped into every muscle of her body; with undivided, rapt attention on her surroundings, Rell slowly and carefully considered her findings.

Her fingers on the bow tightened.

Whoever had set up camp here could not be far off.

Rell placed the arrow upon the bowstring, keeping her grip slack, before she stepped into the clearing with care. Her eyes ran from one line of trees to the other, and then her gaze settled on the small object that earlier had caught her sight. Nudging it with her foot to turn it over in the grass, she discovered the glimmer to be a broken arrow-head. Discarded. The Ranger leaned in closer and came to a crouch. Its edges were jagged, meant to lodge inside the target so to make it difficult to remove, painful, at least without tearing through tissue; many a time she had seen them before, for it was the favored kind chosen by the orcs of the Grey Mountains. To _maim_.

Such arrows had killed her father many years ago.

Her brow was deeply set in furrows, but she did not touch the arrowhead. The findings puzzled her.

The softest, faintest, rustle of leaves drew her attention away. Startled. In an instant her mind became aware that she was no longer alone – yet nothing more than a quick curse passed her thoughts. There was no time. Her entire body frozen, immobile, back and shoulders rigid as her breath hitched in her throat. How careless she had been!

A sword hovered mere inches from her neck, drawn by an unseen person behind her. Close enough to carve the thin skin beneath if she dared to move. _I did not hear him ..._ The blade was long and _sharp_ ; the shine held her gaze transfixed. Rell let both arrow and bow drop from her grip onto the grass below; her heart thundered in her chest. Clenching her hands, gauging the chances of reaching her own weapons in time, Rell calmed her breathing. Inhale. Exhale. _Inhale._

Long, deep, and slow were her breaths, just as her mind worked quickly. She knew well her first real sign of movement would urge the other to respond. If it came to a fight, her actions would start it. And so, she did not move. Dared not to. Another exhale.

The moment stretched unending. Time felt as if stilled, the world holding its breath in waiting. Straightening to her full height, slowly, carefully, her right hand flexed and hovered closer to the small knife at her belt. The sword was of no use in close combat; barely drawn from its sheath before a swift death befell her. Cut down where she stood. Her mind was in turmoil, an internal conflict raging between fight or flight. Could she run? Would she even make it if she tried?

Her eyes flickered across the glade. Were there others, hiding between the trees?

A wind blew, dry and hot, and a flutter of green passed her peripheral vision. The quiet ended. "I will separate your head from your shoulders long before you reach your weapon," a voice said behind her; it was low and dark, but to her ears obviously that of a man's. _Not an_ orc, she thought. Rell knew she had been lured into a trap. But who had set it for her? Clearly the man spoke Westron, though beyond that she was certain of nothing more. "Stand still," he warned gruffly, and Rell felt a hand grasp, seizing, her left wrist tightly to pull behind her back. Her shoulders tensed further.

In that very moment a small window of opportunity opened for her. His attention was briefly turned from the weapon; the blade left the thin skin of her neck, pulled away only barely to secure her hands, but it was enough. The threat was lessened. It was an opportunity, and she seized it at once.

Her elbow shot out and connected with the man's face. He yelped in pain as his nose shattered, yet he was quick to regain his footings, and Rell felt, rather than saw, the blade graze her leg. Retaliation came with swiftness. She kicked out and swept him off his legs, and the heavy body fell with a thud to the ground. Rell was upon him immediately.

She pulled the smaller blade from her belt and spun to face her attacker – a man, her mind noted feebly, dressed in the greens of Ithilien – with fearful vehemence, and Rell dove for his head. Yet there was no real true intent behind her blow, for Rell wished not to kill the other. The blow was blocked and redirected, as there was little will to find in the attack.

His foot came out and met her thigh with great strength; his mark had been the fresh injury, and his aim was true. A white-blinding wave of pain carved through her body. Rell fell to her knees in the grass, dirt and stone digging into her skin, numbness spreading through the bone. Survival's fury boiled deep within, nostrils flaring, when she finally twisted the blade in her hand. He scrambled to his feet next to her, attempting to regain his balance and to grasp the sword, fallen previously from his hands. Rell pushed forward. _Hurry!_

She jumped to her feet.

Heavy footfalls pierced the silence, only broken by short panting gasps from their struggles where all else had fallen deadly still, and fear surged through her once more.

_Not alone_ , her mind warned her, _quicker!_

A body collided with her own. The massive bulk pulled her out of balance and sent her flying to the ground. Air was knocked from her lungs when a fist connected with her stomach. Rell let out a garbled moan, curling in on herself, but still she clutched the blade in her hand. The fight was not yet lost. Barely able to breathe more than shallow rasps, her trembling hand drew back to attack; she rolled over on the grass to get away. A spike of pain cracked through her head. His hand had smashed into her face, and a taste of metal filled her mouth.

Blood trickled down from her split lip.

The second man placed a leg on either side of her body, straddling her down on the ground, and the weapon was pried from her struggling hands. She kicked and clawed. Her vision whirled in a blur, attempting to regain focus in between ragged breaths. Her head pounded. Then a shadow fell over her; Rell glanced sideways, disorientated, and saw another stoop over her. Arrow nocked to the longbow, pointed at her, and in the light it shimmered. The sun was on his back, masking his features in darkness and the cloak blew about him, but he then spoke with a voice calm – almost soothingly, like one would speak to a startled animal.

Yet the words were without kindness. "Stand down or have your life forfeit, woman."

Rell bared her teeth in an aggrieved snarl, but then she let her head fall back onto the ground in submission. Her eyes closed, heart beating against her chest before slowly she regained a quiet breathing. Her mind swam. It took her several long moments, accompanied by a spinning head and silence, before her trembling ceased. They made quick work of her weapons, meanwhile, taking her sword and bow; the knife, as well as the small blade tucked away in her boot they found with ease. She did not struggle against their exploring touches, but remained silent and calm.

She had lost the fight, and it was now a matter of survival above all else.

They stood her up, ungently tying her hands behind her back with rough ropes, and her gaze flickered over them. All wore they green and brown of varied hues, as if to better walk unseen in the woodlands of Ithilien. Certainly, _she_ had not seen them follow. Their eyes were keen and bright, but their faces were otherwise hooded, masked, with green. They had swords at their sides and great bows on their backs. One let out a short, clear-calling whistle, soon answered from within the forest.

Then it went again from another place.

Clearly Rell had slowly been encircled, the fire and smoke only to lure her out quicker, and the trap had been sprung. Mindlessly she had walked straight into it, blind to her surroundings. But then what? Again she watched them, willing her head to clarity, looking from one to the other. One stood nursing his broken nose, blood pooling between his hands, spilling through his fingers; his face was drawn into a frown, and there was no love in his gaze when their eyes met. Rell turned away. Clad in green stood the Rangers of Ithilien about her.

From different directions came now eight men striding through the fern; wielding spears with bright heads, all armed with bows and large quivers of green-feathered arrows. What she then saw upset her, and made her fight once more against her bindings; twisting her body to pull out of the gripping, clutching, hands. _Luin_ was pulled into the glade, tugging at the reins in hesitation of the unfamiliar one leading her. With ears flicking back and forth in alert – until it smelled and saw Rell. The struggle grew instantly fierce.

Blowing, shying away from the green-clad Ranger that led it forward, the large horse reared up with a long, drawn-out squeal. The hoofs stamped like thunder into the ground. Rell shook and kicked in an attempt to free herself. The ropes gnawed at her skin, cutting deep. Bucking, kicking, tossing its head in increasing terror, Luin attempted to pull free. The others sprang into action, approaching with swift but careful steps towards the enraged animal.

Their weapons seemed to shine in the pale sun. "Wait!" Rell cried out and tried to follow, eyes fixed on her faithful companion. The grip on her shoulders tightened and drew her forcefully back. The wound on her leg burned, and she nearly buckled. She shot a glare back to the one holding her. "Do not hurt her!"

Her pleas seemed to fall on deaf ears.

" _Sîdh, Luin_! _Sîdh_!" Rell yelled, voice tearing in despair and desperate hope. The mare stomped and danced skittishly across the ground, tail jerking rapidly side to side, but the ears perked up and twitched at her voice. It tugged at the reins, this time with less force. "Good, _Luin, sîdh_." She repeated the words, lowering her tone gradually. A forceful snort was then followed by Luin standing still, clever eyes turned to the Ranger with expectancy – as if to say _what now_.

_Thank you, Elbereth,_ her mind prayed when it seemed no harm would come to her companion.

"Do not hurt her," she repeated to her captors as the tension calmed, eyes flickering from one to the next. Their weapons were still _too_ close. "She was only frightened."

One Ranger stepped forward and came to stand before her.

He appeared taller than the others, but likewise clad in green and brown and looked no different; grey eyes roamed her face, attentively lingering on her bleeding lip and injured leg, before their gazes locked. Gloved hands pulled the mask from his face. His stature and bearing were proud and sure, and Rell saw clear that he carried command of the other Rangers. Likewise was his manner of speech when he addressed her. "You speak the language of the Elves," he said. It was not a question. "Yet you are no Elf, and neither are you in the service of the White Tower. Tell me, what thoughts shall I make of you?"

Rell trailed her swelling lip, tasting iron and dirt, tentative to answer. Her eyes sought the ground. "I am a traveler. My business is not here, and neither is it with you – but rather far beyond the forests. What wrong have I committed to be so attacked, when all I did was pass through without trouble?"

"There are no travelers north of the Great River, unless they are servants of the Enemy," he stated with an eerie, deliberate calm. Then he started to step around her; Rell moved nothing but her eyes as he came alongside her and circled behind on her left. She passed a quick glance to the other Rangers. Quietly, they all stood watching. His walk was silent and graceful, light upon the grass, and she met his eyes with a hard expression as he came around. Her teeth clenched in challenge, yet all he did was to step closer.

The man circled in front of her once more until he disappeared from view. Rell thought about moving away but was painfully aware it was not an option. When he did not reappear on her right side, her back let out a twinge and stiffened at the fact that he was now standing behind her. Another Ranger still held the ropes around her wrists firmly, making movement difficult. Anxiously, her eyes flickered from side to side, and she shifted from one foot to the other; a silence followed and the steps faded to nothing. Rell breathed deeply through her nose.

"I was allowed passage at Cair Andros," she warily argued, tongue once more flickering over her dry lips. She swallowed, tasting blood.

"And we have been following you ever since."

Her face burned – angered and ashamed – for _she_ had not seen _them_. Eyebrows drawn tight, Rell stared down onto the ground; the braid had come loose in the struggle, and long strands covered her features from her captors. She balled her hands into fists, breathed deeply, repeatedly, in an attempt to calm her frayed nerves. To lash out in wrath would do her no good, so she attempted to regain control of her voice before speaking. When words tumbled from her lips, they fell calmly. "What you saw gave you enough reason to trap me? _Beat_ me and tie me up? Tell me, _protectors_ of Ithilien, has the fear of darkness truly made you come to this? For the free peoples to turn against one another; are the walls of your cities so barred that you know not friend from foe!"

To her great chagrin, the Ranger did not immediately reply.

The short hairs on the nape of her neck stood up, for Rell could feel the quiet appraising gaze that was leveled on her.

"You claim to oppose the Enemy. But I cannot help but wonder," he paused. He came then into view again to stand before Rell; his hand rested upon the hilt of his sword, but there was no tension to his walk. Yet his eyes were hard, and they perceived much. "Who do you call _enemy_? Tell me, stranger in _my_ land, who are you and what shall be your fate?"

Rell looked up and her shoulders straightened. Coming to her full height, albeit no taller than the Ranger of Ithilien before her, she raised her chin to watch him. Legs well apart, she planted herself squarely in front of the man, attempting to disregard the one holding her. "I came into this country on an errand, but do not believe I will so easily reveal my purpose to one unknown to me." Her tone was proud, but clearly it did not appease the Ranger in the slightest. "Declare yourself, and then – maybe – I shall do the same."

"I am Faramir, Captain of Gondor," he said. "Commander of the Rangers of Ithilien."

With a start at his words, Rell looked at him with renewed interest. Before her stood not an enemy, but rather a noble lord of Gondor; though deep in her core a stubbornness had awakened, and the treatment of her had been unjust. Perhaps Ithilien was their ward, that was true, though she had but passed through with no wish for trouble. And none had she caused! And who was she to disclose her – and, with it, her uncle's – errand?

While her clothes were dirtied with mud, her cloak frayed, and, as best as she could, had moved in secret; they could not believe her a spy of the Enemy, surely. She had asked no questions at the ford, sought no news of Gondor or its armies, and traveled in solitude far from the patrols of Mordor. She squared her shoulders and infused her voice with confidence. "From beyond many great leagues and long ways I have come. I am Rell, _Ranger_ of the North. The blood of the Númenor courses through my veins as they do yours."

His astonishment was clear on his face at the widening of his eyes, yet he showed no other reaction.

Whether he believed her words or not, Rell was uncertain, and she spoke again. Hopeful she could persuade him without revealing her own purpose. "On my breast I carry the star of my people – look for yourself and see!"

"I know well the Dúnedain of Arnor, and seldom they have dealings here so far East. For many years our paths have not crossed, and long they have been believed to be but a dwindled and wandering people," he said thoughtfully; stepping forward the Ranger drew forth the six-pointed star clasped to her cloak. He turned it over between his gloved fingers, carefully and keenly, and it shimmered in the sun. "A broken people." Rell held her breath at their closeness, gaze flickering from his attentive face to the brooch, and she hoped her words rang true in his thoughts. Then he withdrew and allowed the star to fall from his grasp. "It would be little effort for the Enemy to contrive such a trinket."

Rell bristled, about to argue, when the captain gave orders of departure. "Wait a mo–!"

When they had drawn closer she knew not, but suddenly a gag was pulled tight across her mouth. She was unable to speak except garbled mumbles and mutterings of protest. Eyes flashing, she struggled against the grip, yet with unthrowable strength she was led forward despite her best efforts. Her heels dug into the ground, however she only buckled and fell to her knees with a yelp. Blood had soaked through her trousers, a red flower blooming from the previous injury, and her vision whitened to a blur. Then she was roughly pulled up again.

Harsh hands pushed her on until they came beneath the dappling shadow of dark trees.

Around her the Rangers fanned out through the bracken, green cloaks blending with the colours of Ithilien, but straight ahead of her their captain walked. Leading them with surety. Her eyes, still swimming in her head, slowly grew accustomed to the sudden dimness and she searched for Luin. To her relief the horse was led with gentleness, ears perked ahead with interest and tail flicking, yet the mare was otherwise no longer startled. At least it had not been harmed, and was now following along with some reluctant curiosity.

The undergrowth grew densely with bush, herb, and tree, giving the place an air of secrecy; hidden from the rest of the world, though it seemed the Rangers followed a hidden but well-known path. Like ghosts they crept through the forest. At times they passed open glades or crested hills, and here scouts led them with strange bird-like whistles. Sharp and clear-cutting through the woodlands, from one place and another; far away and then suddenly close, as if they were but another animal between the leaves. Mostly they kept to the shade of grove or thicket, hardly visible in their brown and green garments. They moved with haste. Brushing through bush and herb, sweet smells were around them, while brambles and roots crawled across the ground.

Rell sagged in her steps, the wound on her leg pulsing and bleeding. When jolts of pain journeyed through her body and she stopped for a respite, she was pulled up; pushed forward on stumbling feet. While her body was slowly, but surely, losing a battle against exhaustion, her mind was clear. Thoughts spun through her head. There had to be a way to escape – an opening at some point, when their guard grew lax or when nighttime fell over the lands. All she had to do was wait. Wait, and watch.

The day passed uneasily and there was little change in the slow hours.

Pale light shone between the leaves and branches. Day-heat grew and was accompanied by a myriad of insects buzzing all about them. The Rangers of Ithilien walked in silence, still and watchful of their surroundings, for they walked in the shadow of darkness. Some came and others went, but throughout the day their numbers had grown to the double.

Only when the sun began its descent and the skies were coloured red did they finally halt. In the deep heathers they found safety, dark-green shadows that worked quickly and efficiently. Scouts were sent in all directions while the rest settled for the reaching night. Rell was shoved to the ground and tied against an ancient bay-tree. There was little love in their hands.

The bark was rough against her bruised skin, but the rest that came with it was most welcome. She found it difficult to do more than doze; the pain urged her to sleep but watchful mistrust kept her awake. Stretching her legs it became clear to see the injury, a patch of red turning darker, and a frown marred her features. Rell wiggled her toes. It had to be cleaned and dressed, or it would fester, but whether her captors would go out of their way to do so she knew not. Worry filled her and again she looked up, hoping to get a better understanding of her present company. Doubt gnawed at her; torn between the truth and secrecy.

Some sat around in small groups, talking, while others looked out into the dimming forest. Their weapons lay close at hand.

No fire was lit, and instead they ate dried meats and bread. Their masks and hoods were removed, and their faces now became revealed to Rell. Pale-skinned and dark of hair, with grey eyes and proud faces; men of the line of Lords of Westernesse, in ages long passed and forgotten to those that lived. They spoke together in soft voices, hard for her ears to discern at first, and she became aware that it was the Elven-tongue. It was a little different from what she knew and had learned, a language of their own, and in a manner of older days when both Elves and Men walked the glades of Ithilien.

Much to her disdain, Rell found the captain by her horse; Luin watched with clever, alert, eyes, but allowed the man to stroke through its grey mane. The great nostrils blew air into his face. He was speaking calmly, yet his mind appeared to be elsewhere and far away. Her glare worsened when he went through her belongings; it was only provisions and weapons, flint and steel, her whetstone, and some spare clothes; but anger stirred nonetheless. Rell did not draw her gaze away until he finally stepped back and returned to his company.

A formless grey settled over the forest; night came under star and round moon.

Silver-white light fell on the treetops.

There was not much for her to do except sleep. The ropes were thick and strong, unbreakable without a weapon, and even if she succeeded there was no clear path away from the Rangers. This was their land, and with ease they could once more track her down. Hunger came to her. She drew her legs close, despite the painful protest of her injury, and her head came to rest on her knees. It was cold. Fretful slumber claimed her, and the night was passed between waking and sleep; startling awake whenever a scout returned or guards changed. The long calls of an owl echoed in the silence.

In the morning she was shook roughly awake.

She drew back with a wrench and a startled, muffled cry; groggy eyes saw a Ranger crouch before her, hood and mask in place, but grey eyes vigilant over its brim. Slowly, cautiously, he drew the gag from her mouth and Rell remained silent. Curious to his purpose. From his side he drew forth a waterskin and held it to her lips; at first Rell took only little water, but soon thirst won her over and she drank greedily. Droplets ran down her chin and fell into her clothes. Next he took a clean cloth and wetted it with water. The touch was cool and raw against the cut on her lip, but much welcomed, and the taste of blood and dirt disappeared.

His eyes were set on his task, not once meeting hers, while Rell watched him in return. Streaks of grey was in his dark hair; both signs of age and scars were many on his face. With his attention now settling on her leg, he shifted and came to sit on the ground; he did not ask, but took her ankle in his hand and stretched her leg. The gesture was not unkindly, rather careful and slow so that Rell had a chance to adjust, before he pried the fabric up her shin and thigh. His touch was detached. Rell winced for the blood had dried overnight.

The pain in her wound grew again. It was with practiced ease that the Ranger washed the gash for scabs and dirt, leaving a deep but clean cut. From a pouch in his belt he drew out long, yellow-striped leaves of an unknown plant; crumbling the leaves between his fingers, he then pressed them against her wound for many long moments. It stung horribly, and smelled just as bad, but Rell assumed he knew what he was doing. A bandage was drawn around the wound, tightly, and the leg of her trousers was pulled back in place. His hand reached for the loosened gag.

"Thank you," Rell said quickly, before her voice was taken from her once more.

The man stood abruptly and turned.

She watched him leave and approach their leader, where they then spoke quietly together with heads bowed. Rell noticed the captain's gaze lingering on her from under the brim of his hood. His grey eyes were dark and unreadable, but she looked back at him with squared resentment despite the healer's treatment. A small kindness could not undo a greater evil. He soon looked away once more.

Again they marched throughout the day, finding hidden paths and roads between ridges and stones; over chuckling streams that came winding through the forest, and always did the Rangers steer South. Further and further from her destination, and Rell often glanced to the sky with despondency. Her thoughts called her uncle to mind, and her stomach curled at the ever-pressing need that had driven her to leave the Angle.

She tried to keep track of their road, counting her steps and the hours passing, but they walked many hidden paths; back and forth, circling rocky formations and hills, and soon Rell had lost all track of time and place. At times she was blindfolded and led around roughly, when they stepped through secret ravines or winding streams, forbidden to her eyes.

She no longer knew where she was.

No words were spoken to her. If they wanted her to walk one way or another, to creep through thick-growing bushes or clamber unsteadily over rocks, she was pushed and shoved in the right direction; perhaps accompanied with a low grunt or a huff. Her leg still pulsed and ached, though it appeared as if the medicine helped. She no longer felt tendrils of pain shoot through her bones with every step. But Rell plodded along silently and with a heavy heart, unable to care greatly about her own captivity, for her concern drew her mind away. Her head was bowed and her eyes unseeing.

Often she stumbled over roots or stones, but just as quickly she was dragged back onto her feet. Pushed forward.

The next day spent in their company was much the same as the last, and the one before. They fed her a little, checked her wounds, but not a word was spoken to her. The wind was colder, and the clouds closer and greyer; there had been little sunshine on the company, but as the fourth day broke, bleak and windy, the sun broke through cracks and fissures in the cover. Long yellow beams lit the forest floor. The night before they y had made camp in an open dell, one side flanked by steep rock walls, and with trees encircling all around.

It was then that the captain approached her.

Rell watched him draw near; noted how his boots were silent on the grass and his strides long, purposeful. Noble and wise he seemed, reminding her of her uncle, and he appeared so much more than just a warrior. Again, she concidered honesty. He came to a halt before her, the rising sun on his back so that he was but a darkened shadow in her eyes. Large. Daunting, as if wishing to intimidate her. Her lips pursed. For a while longer he stood there, silent, as he regarded her, until she glanced away. The light was harsh in her eyes. "Very strange you are," he finally said. "Who are you, child?" To her ears it sounded like a thoughtful statement more than a question, yet her brow furrowed.

The Ranger crouched down by her side, hooded features coming into view as he shifted away from the sunlight. Rell turned her face to look at him. She could not read his eyes, masked except for a brief flicker of interest, and she felt curious suspense rather than fear in her own mind. His hand moved out towards her, and Rell sat still, stiff in anticipation; yet all he did was draw the cloth from her mouth. Her split lip was dry, chapped, as she tentatively ran her tongue over the cut. Rusty iron filled her mouth.

"I have told you who I am," she stated.

A flicker, half-humorous, came into his eyes. Then they seemed to grow smaller and almost sharp. "Indeed you did, Wanderer from the North, and be it truth or lie I cannot tell. Yet also I know, that none may pass through Ithilien without word from the Steward. Word, that you do not carry. But tell me then, what news can you share – for I do like news." Rell shuffled, vexing arms pulling at the ropes, before she quietly mulled over his request. All around them the other Rangers had disappeared into the forest, leaving the captain and his captive alone; their withdrawal unsettled her.

"Many things, great and small, are happening in the world," she said, "Certainly it would take a long time to tell you about them all."

Clearly her answer was less than welcome, and with swiftness he dismissed it with a long, drawn-out sigh. "Very well." The gag was drawn across her mouth once more and he stood to leave. "We shall talk again at a later time. Perhaps then you have come to realize what is _important_ enough to tell."

Rell watched him stride away in silence and soon the hidden Rangers returned from the green shadows. To her it felt like she had won; perhaps a small and insignificant battle, but nonetheless it was a victory against her captor. Certainly she would not make it easy on them, even if they were fighting the same enemy, for they had yet to believe the truth in her previous words.

Stretching as much as she could against her bindings, she ignored the small voice in the back of her mind; the one that urged her to be honest, for surely the Rangers had reason enough to mistrust her. Instead, she waited for them to pack up camp in the following hour. The grey morning was about them, turning golden and warm, and birds milled about in the trees around them. Her brow was wet from the sudden heat, and her hair clung to her skin. With some amusement – and a grumbling stomach – Rell noted that they did not bring food nor drink to her.

When they came for her, it was with little care that they pulled her to her feet.

Rell stepped from one foot to the other, attempting to get the blood to flow once more, and she wriggled her toes. She worked her muscles as best she could; eyebrow raised at the man by her side. With a grunt he shoved her forward, further into the clearing towards the gathered Rangers. Departure was at hand.

But something was off. _Wrong._ Suddenly they were aware that everything was very quiet; the whole forest waiting in listening silence. The Rangers stood tense, looking about them as weapons were drawn, for they, too, could sense it. The trees quivered as if a gust of wind had struck them, then there was another pause. Rell tugged and pulled at her bindings while all stood poised for action; something was near and coming closer. A whistle was borne upon the wind, shrill and hasty, and quickly the men moved into a half-circle, faces outward to the trees and with the rocks at their backs, in unwavering unison.

With a great crash came a vast shape through the trees. A ferocious snarl ripped from the orc's mouth and on he came, straight towards the Rangers. But quick they were to swerve into work. Black blood coated the grass. Rell stepped further into the middle of the clearing, cursing the ropes with all her might as the one, who had previously led her, left her on her own. She could hear plainly the harsh screeches between the trees; first distant but growing ever closer and louder. For a moment she caught a glimpse of dark figures, moving within the shadows.

They found themselves in the middle of an orc raid!

It seemed now as sudden as the bursting of a flood that had long been held back by a dike, and with one great cry orcs spilled from every direction about them. They charged the Rangers with crazed bloodlust, but the very first wave was met with a wall of arrows that sang through the air. With hollow thuds they pierced armor and flesh, certain in their aim sprung from great bows. Though it was not enough, and new enemies jumped over the fallen with little regard. The ringing grate of steel on steel, the dull beat of a blade meeting a shield, erupted in the clearing and throughout the forest for many miles around them.

Drums rolled in the hills. A harsh horn-cry made the orcs screech. Hoarse laughter came from all around, weaving between the boles; heavy mail-clad feet thundered through the ground. The Rangers sprang forward, cutting and stabbing, with spears and swords blazing in the clear sun. There were so many orcs Rell lost count, and she stumbled away to avoid the battle. Weaving between the green-cloaked men away from the fray.

Huge creatures wearing black mail-shirts, armed with axes and spiked clubs, came from all sides. Someone slammed into her, sending her tumbling to the ground; with arms tied to her back, she hit the grass hard. Rell curled in on herself, dodging trambling feet, frantic eyes whirling across the battleground. Her gaze searched for Luin, until finally finding the horse tied to the rock-wall; stricken with terror and madly pulling at the ropes. A black-feathered arrow whizzed by her ear, lodging into the ground mere inches from her face.

Rell bolted across the grass and stopped by Luin's side, attempting to sound reassurances through the gag over her mouth. _Steady, Luin, I am here!_ Nostrils flaring, eyes wide and fearful, the horse stilled by her side. She pressed her shoulder against the warm flank, felt the rapid heartbeat beneath, and hummed. They had to get away. Her attention came to the jagged rocks; there was nothing she could do without her hands free.

She pressed her back against the sharpest rocks, fumbling until the ropes latched onto an edge. As she worked, she looked up. Many orcs lay dead in the grass and dark blood soaked the earth, but still they came. Unrelenting, unending. A clear voice called in the din over the fighting. _"Gondor! Gondor!_ " It sounded far away, drowned by the screeches and cries that came in a foul, loathsome language of Mordor. The rock cut into her palm, again and again, but however much she struggled the ties did not break. A cry of frustration was swallowed by the gag, and to her horror she felt frustrated tears rise to her eyes. Hope dwindled in her chest.

Rell pressed off the wall, desperately searching across the dead bodies for a weapon. Men and Orcs were all about, caught in battle, and so she slipped carefully between whirring blades and arrows; light and quick on her feet. She came first upon a large two-handed axe and, dropping to the ground in an attempt to position the blade against her hands, she worked in a frenzy. _Quickly!_

A large body crumbled to the ground beside her, mouth open to reveal rotten and blackened teeth; blood foamed, fingers grasping at the spear that had punctured the orc's ribcage. Then it lay deadly still. She stared at it, almost petrified, frozen mid-work. Then, suddenly she was grabbed from behind. Rough hands seized and yanked her to her feet. _No!_ Rell screamed, but no real sound came out, and her arms were pulled back harshly. Panicking, she struggled wildly, despite the cuts hurting more with every twist her body made. _No, no, no!_

The cords slipped off her wrists.

Her hands came free and she was released. Rell stumbled forward, confused, and looked back over her shoulder. The captain stood there, another man at his back; a gash was on his forehead, dripping blood into his eye; his cloak was torn and painted red, and his knife was dripping. Then he tossed a sheathed blade to her. Rell caught it, yet before she could voice her wonder he jumped into the fray. An orc fell with a slash across the throat long before it could even raise its axe. The weight in her hands was familiar, welcomed beyond all else, and she turned it over between her fingers. Her sword.

She threw aside the gag with resentment. Glittering steel was raised and Rell ran to Luin with haste, quickly through the fray.

Cutting the bindings, the Ranger drew a bloodied hand across the horse's coat, and then sent it tearing through the trees. _Away_ from the fight. No orc could catch a horse of the Elves, be it on open plains or in the forest, and she knew Luin would be safe. Rell turned to face the shrieking and the cries, grip tightened and eyes flashing.

The Rangers of Ithilien would not fight alone.


	11. The Stench of the Marshes

Rell nursed her bruised cheek while the shadows of evening drew long.

The air was swarmed with flies and heavy with the scent of blood; the Rangers piled the corpses of the Orcs and buried their own in shallow graves. In swiftness they worked. Four men of Gondor had died in the ambush. Many a time before had they parted ways with companions, and they would come to do it again in the dark days ahead. They did not speak as they worked. Her sword then hung at her belt where it belonged, and her bow and arrows were tied to Luin's satchel. The horse had trotted back into the clearing on its own after the fighting had stopped; unscathed and quick to find Rell amongst the men.

The Captain of Gondor, Faramir, had asked her to stay for he wished to speak with her. This time not as enemies, he had assured her, but as those with a common enemy. As allies. With a glance from the corner of her eye, Rell watched him with a pensive frown. Her wrists were dappled blue and yellow, and many bloody lines ran across her skin from the bindings – and her fruitless attempts to loosen them on the rocks. She knew not yet if they would leave new scars.

When the swift burials were complete, the Rangers left the glade and entered the woods once more; they could not linger, fearing still more Orcs to be afoot nearby. They were both weary and exhausted after the fight. If their victory reached the Enemy a pursuit would come swiftly. And it seemed news travelled fast in the forests of Ithilien.

Rell took Luin by the reins and deftly guided the horse after the green-clad men.

The mood was sullen after the heavy loss they had suffered. Her eyes were on the mossy ground beneath her feet, watching the flittering light dance across green as a wind picked through the trees. With a hand on the hilt of her sword, Rell was mindful of her surroundings. The tension of the fight whirred continuously through her body. She felt on edge, and her body ached with both old and fresh injuries.

One came to walk by her side.

She glanced to him, then looked ahead. There was a limp to her step, and Rell could not hide her frown from the other as he openly regarded her. "You never intended to kill my men when we attacked, did you?" Faramir asked. The hood was drawn across his features, though the grey eyes shone with brightness in the waning light of day. Rell blinked, pondering the question for a while. Surely there was something else on his mind, or she could just as well turn and ride North without delay. What worth could he find in such questions?

So many days of travel had been lost at her capture.

"From the beginning I knew you were not Orcs," she answered, thinking back to the tracks she had found. Often she had hunted Orcs with her uncle, so she knew well the signs to look for. Heavy footsteps and a disregard for all things living were always plain to see; as if the very nature around them had to be wrecked and destroyed in senseless malice. The Rangers had barely touched the soft mud around the clearing. Instincts told them to leave no mark. "The green of your cloaks only solidified my belief. In my heart I knew you were not my enemy, though that certainly did not halt _your_ blows. I fought to survive, but not to kill."

He cleared his throat, and a bird startled from the leaves above their heads. Both looked up, watching the grey shadow flutter from one branch to another; then he spoke again. "One would usually think twice with a sword at their neck, and often they then decide upon surrender. But perhaps it is not so for the Rangers of the North?" Rell was not certain, but she felt she could hear amusement in his voice. When she looked to him their eyes met; acclaim was in his gaze. "Though is it foolhardiness or bravery? I certainly cannot tell."

While the conversation touched only lightly upon what had happened, Rell kept tight-lipped. There was still doubt in her heart. Her bindings may well have been cut, but she much still felt like a prisoner at trial. The captain was not slow-witted; she had not disclosed her purpose in Ithilien, and she kept the matter concealed from him. It was his duty to protect the lands of Ithilien, and she was one trespassing with secrecy.

"It would not be a first to call my acts foolish or ill-considered. I should, though, think that anyone would fight when threatened? Would your actions not mirror my own, if our places had been turned?" The courtesy now shown to her had not yet quieted her suspicions, and so she replied with hesitation. Rell found herself in another battle – this time not of blades, but of words and wits. She stifled a groan and, instead, turned her face away to peer into the bracken. Her hand rubbed her neck and cheek, brushing over the discoloration that surely adorned her face.

"Indeed," he said, "Although, seldom is it that we find such resistance in a woman."

Her lips grew thin and white, and she was about to ask if they often jumped out to assault unsuspecting women to know such things. The corner of her mouth tilted up. While his questions were light-hearted, Rell knew well what he was asking. What purpose had brought her to the lands of Ithilien? The women of Gondor had many duties, even in times of war and strife, but fighting was not one of them. One armed like her, moving alone through lands besieged by the Great Enemy?

"You need not fear for your head, captain," she replied on second thoughts. "I wish neither to kill nor harm you. Neither do I harbor any ill will towards your men, despite what may have happened between us. And even if I could possibly succeed in such an endeavor. I expect you know this well, or you would not have freed me during the battle? All I shall ask for is passage through Ithilien – this time undisturbed on my path to wherever it may lead me."

"You were heading northwest."

Again she remained silent. Rell tasted salt and iron her lips as her tongue darted out.

"To the wetlands," Faramir continued, slowly and very softly. He bore a strange, almost knowing, smile. Rell raised an eyebrow and regarded him quietly. Uncertainty crept into her mind; could he still believe her a spy of the Enemy? The branches and leaves crunched beneath her feet when she put distance between them. "And so I wonder at your destination, and your task, for there is nothing of wonder or worth in the Dead Marshes. It is a desolate and abandoned place; you will find nothing but Orc patrols and endless pools." His eyes grew dull, looking ahead into nothing. "There, in the water, you shall find only the dead waiting."

"That is my path," Rell finally answered.

"It is as I thought. Then I would advise you to seek out another."

Looking down on the ground, stepping over hidden roots, Rell drew Luin to a halt; the Ranger paused by her side, and all around them his men mirrored their captain. Barely had she heard their steps before, light over the forest floor, but now true silence came upon them. "There is no other way," she said, eyes drawn to his and there she held her gaze steady. Truly his counsel was not unkind, and her road was that of evil; of menace and dread, yet it was her road. So far already she had travelled, encountered so much, and it was not yet time for her to return to home and hearth. Loyalty carried her forward, and this troth would not be broken by her – only in death would she no longer fight for her chieftain.

"I fear it is a hopeless errand," said Faramir. "Whatever your errand may be."

For a long while they stood in silence, dark gazes locked as neither spoke.

Then he sighed and nodded, mind made up, and his gloved hand grasped her shoulder. He stood much taller than her, yet there was a burden on his face; grim and troubled, almost saddened he appeared to her. "But at least remember my warning that I tell you now. Follow not the lights of the dead. Fair they may look in their fell magic, yet they are but faces rotting and twisted. Do not join them! Now you shall go with my blessing upon you, and that of the White Tower, for here our ways part."

To the west she could see light through the trees, and it was to there the captain pointed.

"Go straight on, and you will have the cover of woodland for many miles. When you reach the hillside of a great valley you must keep to its edge, skirting the forest, and only then should you steer north. Once you climb the hill you will reach the marshes, and from there it is open and inhospitable lands for many miles. You will find no protection there."

"It would seem that evil turned to great good upon meeting you, Captain of Gondor," Rell said. "Although bruises and cuts will be my companions for many days now, and precious time has been lost in my capture! Know that I do not hold your actions against you, nor your men, for you followed the duty of your people. For that I shall applaud you. I will keep to your words on my path." She lowered her head. "Farewell."

Faramir gave her one final advice, halting her in her steps. "Only in the woods should you walk in daylight, for here evil is still withdrawn. The trees and the forest is your ally. But be wary in the open!"

Then he turned and, without looking back, left her. With great speed the Rangers moved, vanishing almost in the twinkling of an eye into the green shadows; the forest seemed empty, and Rell stood alone once more with her thoughts and her horse. Checking and refastening her packs in the saddle, she spoke quietly to Luin to keep her mind from noting the silence that hung heavy about them. So it was that she passed on into the woods of Ithilien.

A great distance had to be covered, and with haste, for many days had been lost.

The sun rose and passed overhead, and began to sink, and the light through the trees to the west grew golden-red. Rell walked in cool shadows. Darkness came early to the silent woods, and before the fall of night she halted at a small fresh stream, running through thickets of spindle wood. Her wounds were sore and throbbed, begging for her attention. The water was cold when she washed her face and leg; turning muddy brown and swirled with red, but the ache lessened enough for her to stretch rigid limbs. No living creature, beast or bird, was to be seen.

She settled under an old gnarled holly, roots twisting down the crumbled bank to the waters, and here she slept away the night on hard stones.

Her sleep was uneasy, and she woke many times. It was altogether dark under the canopy of the tree, and she waited restlessly for the growing day; to see tendrils of yellow and red skirt the eastern treetops to herald the beginning of light. But no day came, only a dead brown sunrise, like a dull red glare under the lowering clouds to the East. A dark cover smothered the sun.

The sight was bleak and disheartening. If it was a storm approaching or some wickedness sprung from Mordor, Rell could not tell, but throughout the day it seemed like the light grew dim rather than bright. Darker and darker. Like a candle dying, flickering and fighting to no avail. The glow was soon so dull that even a keen-eyed beast could scarcely see her walking warily through the woods.

Rell carried on westward, but without the sun to follow it was difficult to know for certain what path she was on. With each step she felt further and further lost. Looking ahead she could see only tree-trunks of many sizes and shapes, and the same sight met her when she looked back; smooth or gnarled and branched, straight or bent, twisted; and all the stems were green with moss. Very old and very tall they seemed. The air was thick, and the trees seemed to close in before her. Rell felt her heart heavy with discouragement, but recalled the captain's words at their departure, _the woods are not evil_.

It was but her mind playing tricks on her.

For a while she searched for the tallest tree to climb, until at length an old oak caught her gaze. Its branches were many, gnarled and intertwined, and the dark-green leaves grew dense. Fingers digging, searching for cracks and holds, Rell clambered from branch to branch; light seeped through the dark canopy, dull and greying, before fresh air finally reached her. By then she was panting hard. The Ranger settled on a thick bough and brushed aside green leaves to have a view over the dense forest, looking far across the lands that were blanketed in a looming gloom.

When she peered back to where she had been before, there was but the roof of the forest, covered in a vast dense shadow that seemed to grow out of the East. The sight chilled her heart. The clouds were grey and heavy, ringed with a sickly yellow glare from a sun veiled. Further, beyond the woodlands, lay darkness, for here her eyes saw distant contours of towering walls. Far away the land of Mordor was, yet the blackened teeth seemed to reach high into the sky; gnawing and biting at the sun, and from its mouth a suffocating evil spilled forth.

Rell looked away.

Her gaze turned west, to the road ahead, attempting to see the straggling edges of the wood. It was an endless stretch before her; greens weaving between the colours of late Autumn, and the forest rose and fell over many small hills and valleys. Here and there were clear patches, open glades, where the canopy dipped; small dark shapes wove through the air, swift and agile, only to quickly disappear between the trees. The dull light of day left her sight weakened, and she saw only little before her. There was no end to the forest of Ithilien.

Yet when she strained her gaze, it seemed as if the green canopy climbed, like a sea rising, in the far distance. For a while longer she looked, straddling the bough as cooling winds brushed against her, but then Rell climbed back to the ground. Oppressive heat surrounded her at once, stifling and dark it all appeared; the light was dearly missed. She took Luin's reins and drew the horse forward with her. No sounds were around her, and she walked in listening silence.

She picked a way among the trees, and an hour later the ground began to rise steadily ahead.

As she went forward it seemed that the boles became taller, darker, and thicker. There was no whispering or movement in the leaves or branches, and the wind had died. For several hours Rell continued the climb, ears trained on the sound of water for the air was old and warm; her mouth was dry, but the waterskin empty, and her brow and neck were coated in dampness. The air was strangely warm for the season. Her steps fell heavy on the soft ground, clear they rung into the silence of the forest where no beast nor bird could be heard.

It was in those moments that things took a new turn.

The slope stopped climbing and became nearly level ahead of them. The dark trees drew aside, and a path went straight forward.

Some distance off before her there stood a green and treeless hill-top, beyond the encircling wood it climbed further up and she assumed it was what the Ranger had spoken of. The valley. The path seemed to make directly for it. She now hurried forward again, delighted with the thought of climbing out for a while above the roof of the forest; carefully she avoided writhing and interlocked roots, but soon there was no undergrowth below her booted feet. Instead, small rocks pocked out through the soil.

At the edge of the wood and at the foot of the tall hill Rell paused.

A fresh wind was on her face, banishing the oppression that had smothered her senses only moments before. Luin danced skittishly by her side, pulling at the reins with insistency. Beads trailed down her brow and neck, and she breathed deeply. The air was not clear nor fresh; there was no smell of flowers or grass, and instead Rell covered her mouth.

Putrid, stagnant it came to her and in her mind's eye came images of rotting flesh and death. Could she truly have reached the Marshes so soon? _How far have I walked?_ She pressed on, following a winding path for the hill was steep, until at length she came to its crest. The sun remained veiled and the air was hazy; she could not see any great distance on any side. Though here and there the mist broke and swirled, and Rell caught glimpses of what lay beyond.

It was a deep fog that rose like wisps of white smoke from the valley below. Naught but shapeless brown, small islands of tussock between mires and pools was to be seen in the long stretches around her; settling on the grass, Rell set Luin free to graze for a while as she pondered her next step. It would be no easy task to navigate the marshes. Further, beyond Nindalf – for the swamps and pathless fens had not yet turned to the Dead Marshes – a dark line cut through the foggy browns, like distant mountains. The wind was chilly and heavy with an odour of cold decay.

Rell shivered.

The outer ridge of Emyn Muil bend gradually northward, fencing in the wetlands with jagged ridges and deep gullies. It came to an end in a steep, unscalable edge when it met marsh-waters; how her uncle planned to pass the towering cliffs, she could not imagine, or if he would make a path around as she had. A dreadful thought wove through her mind. _What if he has already passed beyond? Has he turned aside and gone elsewhere?_ The sight before her tore apart her spirit, an undefeatable challenge. Now, suddenly and abruptly, the Ranger came face to face with reality. She could walk aimlessly through the mires, search for tracks that were not there, and never would she know for certain what fate awaited her.

Despondent was her mind, and she did not move further that day. The westering sun was caught into clouds, and night came swiftly. There were no stars nor moon to be seen, blanketing the world in deep darkness until only sounds reached her. They came faintly to her from below, small plops that echoed and disappeared; tossed around in the quiet of the late hour. Wind sighed over the edges of stones, hissing in the night. The sky was swallowed; searing light smote down the hills, a dry splitting crack of thunder rang right overhead.

Yet no rain came.

Far beyond, over the distant contours of Emyn Muil, the skirts of the storm lifted; it turned and blew across the Anduin, lowering in the mountains and rolled over Gondor and the skirts of Rohan. Where she sat, over the reeking marshes, the deep blue sky of night opened once more. The realms of Men would take the blunt of the storm, sparing the solitary Ranger upon the hill from the downpour and the gales. A single, pale star appeared. Glistening, Elemmírë watched the huddled and lonesome figure until light came in the still distant East. Night came and went; dawn crawled across the clouded sky. But none of this she saw.

Savage winds howled, chill and harsh against the Ranger on the hill.

Rell sat with her face buried in her knees, defeated by disappointment, and wept bitterly.

In her heart, she knew she had failed.

* * *

**January, The Third Age, 3017**

Arid moors of the Noman-lands had become a sight most accustomed to the Ranger; dreadful and loathsome, the crawling days were bleak and veiled, grey hazes of swirling mists. The nights were wet and restless. At best she found hard and cold spaces between the murky-watered pools, on mounds covered in wretched turf. Yellowed and dead, feeding off the rottenness in the ground, where nothing else could grow. Never did she sleep through the night, and never was she rested on the morrow.

At times the sun was up, glistening through the clouds and smoke, but Rell felt only coldness crawl across her skin. Exposed to any watchful eye that may linger on the marshes. But she could not follow the words of the Ranger of Ithilien. No moon nor star could light a path in the dark, and while she had ventured out between the pools during the first nights, making harrowingly slow progress, she soon found it impossible. Where she thought there was solid ground it came to reveal a close-growing layer of milfoil. She had spent many hours trembling from the cold plunge beneath the murky surface.

So it was that she carefully crept her way through the marshes in daylight, left bare in the open lands that spread on all sides.

The land was haggard, almost entirely lifeless and deserted. Here neither Spring nor Summer would ever come again, and the gasping pools were choked with ash and mud. Often she had to turn back, or stray around, when she came across large open waters. Yet even worse it was when the weather grew increasingly cold as one week passed to the next, and the narrow paths between fens and tussocks became almost untraversable for her and the horse.

A layer of ice covered the still waters, but often it was too thin to tread and Rell, slipping or stepping off the trail, fell through with a crack on more than one occasion. It became difficult to find firmer places where feet could step without sinking through gurgling sludge. There was no part of her not covered in green horrid-smelling mud, and no fire could force away the chill in her bones. Hanging in the still air was a constant stifling reek of rot. Always the wind was present, howling and biting, as it drew in from the North. Only the reeds, growing in clusters here and there, proved some shelter.

Rell steered one way, then another, and she went back and forth in an attempt to find a clear path through the marshes; the marshes were bewildering and treacherous, and not even a Ranger could find a trail through shifting quagmires. Always she kept the dark ridges of Emyn Muil ahead, a beacon of black in the pale green light to aim for. Carefully trying to keep on the proper course. She went forward with great attention and moved only very slowly. On and on, with only brief halts during the nights; seldom the moon was out, and so the land was covered in a deep darkness. Many strange sounds were about her, yet always she was alone. She tried to hum familiar songs, but the words died on her lips; choked and forgotten in the rottenness.

The air seemed black and heavy to breathe.

When she had set out again, soon a fortnight ago, Rell had hunted through the forests of Ithilien to resupply. Setting up snares and following tracks on the forest floor; she had lost a few days of travel to cover a larger area. But it proved the wise choice, for there were no beasts nor birds to be found in the marshlands of Nindalf. Many familiar roots had grown between the trees in the lands claimed by Gondor, and three full bags hung in a strap on the saddle by her side; mushrooms and wrinkled berries likewise. The animals had been swift and quick to flee, and often her arrows missed, but Rell had managed to shoot and kill two yellow-headed blackbirds; they were plump and well-fed for the long winter months.

Only one snare had proved to yield a catch. A rabbit; brown pelt, wiry muscles, and hammering heart; it met an early end by the tip of her knife. The meat was a most welcome guest as hunger soon came to her on the road. It took clever planning and many hungry hours for the food to last her long enough. And even then, it was only through a struggle.

Rell only ever lit a fire during daylight, fearful that the flames would be seen in the dark. Though the Ranger had yet to come across any living thing, be they creature or beast, she felt constantly watched. The marshes were not safe, she knew that well, and so often she would flinch at even the smallest of movement or sound. Mostly there was a deep silence, disturbed only by the rustling of reeds or the fumes sizzling through the mud, but at times a drum ran through the earth. A deep, resounding tremor.

It was a dreary and wearisome pursuit across the land, and the despondency that had claimed her heart upon the hilltop was yet to release its hold over her.

The days passed uneventful.

Presently, the sullen morning grew to day. No sun pierced the low clouded sky over the endless network of pools. Her current course took her further North than she liked, but there was no other path to tread; the fens grew wetter, opening into wide stagnant pools that Luin and she could only go around, and the swirling mists grew thicker. The haze was greyish and blue, weaving between the tussocks and reeds, obscuring her vision. While she had grown accustomed to the foul smells in the air, it now hit her with renewed force.

She took another step forward but soon recoiled. Dark water was before her, mirror-still; deep and black, and the rings formed by her boot rippled only once. Then they vanished. Luin drew back, blowing deeply in unease, as if sensing something the Ranger could not. Rell peered out over the pool, gaze transfixed by the deepness that seemed unending. The reeds trembled in the wind. A small voice, a warning that cried out in her mind, was deafened by an odd curiosity. If she looked into this deep and dark window, Rell knew what she would find beneath the surface. She had entered the Dead Marshes.

A shiver ran through her body.

Rell blinked and shook her head, quickly stepping away from the mere; her breathing was heavy, struggling for air, and her mind befuddled. Her feet caught in a dried patch of turf and she stumbled back. She hit the ground with a yelp, hands sinking into deep sludge, cold and sticky against her skin. Like fingers gripping onto her, a clammy touch holding tightly so that she could not escape. From the corner of an eye she spotted movement. Luin nickered.

The fog had drawn close around them, a heavy and unbreakable cover; something strange was discernable within. Misty flames that flickered and shone, pale lights twisting in, then out of her vision. They came and went, fading and reappearing as soon as she looked in their direction. Her breathing stilled, caught in her throat, and she sat completely still. She could not move, even if she wanted to.

Terrible thoughts came to her. Shapes coalesced in the mists where the lights were, and Rell saw faces pale and fair; but also rotting and grim. Dead. A hiss was in the air, threading through the thin-bladed reeds over the dry grass, all around her. Fear overcame her, sweeping away any other thought from her mind, yet she remained on the ground as her gaze was held by some strange bewitchment. How very cold she felt! Into the very marrow of her bones the chill dug.

There was a thunder running through the ground, tremors she knew to be Luin's increasing panic. The chill was no longer only in her hands, submerged into the deep mud; it was slowly creeping further up her arms, past her elbows until even her shoulders became heavy. The lights flickered through the haze, though it seemed as if they came closer. Drawing nearer as her mind became dull. Silver hair fell as water over golden armor, faces proud and fair to behold. They looked sad, mournful, and pity came to her dazed thoughts.

Rell became aware that it was getting very cold, and that a frosty wind began to blow. An icy wind that brought with it a change; the mist was flowing past her now in tattered shreds. Torn apart to reveal the mires and pools of the Dead Marshes. And with the forceful wind the fair warriors of old twisted and morphed before her very eyes. No longer were they beautiful and full of sorrow. With swiftness, fighting against the fresh western gales, the lights sprang towards her and she struggled back. Away with a wail bubbling past her lips. The hair was not silver, but sullen reeds of brown and green; and their fairness nothing more than a cracking mask that soon revealed fell rot beneath.

Rell squeezed her eyes shut at the sight.

For a long while all was quiet as she sat there. Her ears were strained, and upon the wind there were wails and cries, hissing displeasement. Slowly, carefully, she pried her eyes open and peered out over the marshlands. The haze was but thin strips torn apart still clinging to the pools, and the lights wavered, glimmering silvery flames, until they vanished entirely. Rell looked up and saw with surprise that faint rays of sunlight came down between hurrying cloud and fog.

It was with ease that she could now draw her hands from the mud.

The chill lingered still, and with trembling steps she took Luin's reins. "Let us get away from here," she whispered. "This is a foul and accursed place, certainly not one for the living." Rell sought a path round the mere, moving from one tussock to another, and always was she wary of the ghostly lights reappearing. How close she had been!

Mesmerized by the candles of the dead. Many Elves had been buried here after the great battle at the Dagorlad, but over the years the marshes had grown and swallowed the graves; their peaceful resting place had been disturbed, and now they willed wanderers into the watery depths to join them. If not for the winds, would she have become one of them? Joined them without a struggle?

The Ranger cast aside the horrible thought and followed a long lane of reeds, where murky and miserable waters on both sides made her step difficult.

It was late in the afternoon when she reached firmer ground. The sun grew increasingly bright in the sky, as if a whisp of luck shone upon her, until the mists parted and a clear view of the marshes opened before her. For a while she stood there, tired, looking about. The dark cliffs of Emyn Muil were closer than ever, so close that her keen eyes could see thin shapes of twisted trees upon its ridges. There was still a day's journey to the range of hills, if not more, through an open stretch of waters and mounds. To both the North, the South, and the East, the marshes continued further still.

It was long since she had lost sight of the greens of Ithilien and only sullen brown met her gaze.

A dark shape crawled across the horizon to the east, a thin line of rock smothered in fumes of ash; the sky was without light there, and Rell looked with little hope to the Mountains of Shadow. Her sense of direction had been skewed ever since she stepped foot into the wetlands, and it was with apprehension that the Ranger came to an understanding – she had ventured too far East. The dusty plain of Dagorlad was dauntingly close.

There was nothing she could do about it except steer clearly westward, and so it was that Rell slowly treaded a way across the dead land. In the falling dusk, until the edge of night, she scrambled along. Head bowed, eyes searching for sure footings while there was still some light to ease her path; but soon darkness came to the Marshes and Rell could go no further that day. She lit no fire and endured the crusted mud covering her arms and legs, daring not to approach the waters more than necessary. Least of all for a sense of cleanliness.

Fear lingered in her body still.

Though she did take her time to rub Luin's legs and hooves with her hands, brushing off large cakes of sludge clinging to the coat. Another dreadful day had passed in the marshes, and her nerves felt stretched and frayed. The ominous contours of Mordor stood stark against the horizon; she gazed to the range of mountains with despair. Just beyond the cliffs there were thousands upon thousands of Orcs, servants of the Enemy, and ever did their numbers grow. While the watch around the fences of Mordor slept, evil had returned.

How long did they have before the foul filth would flow from the mouth of the Morannon?

She pried her gaze away and settled into a moon-shaped bowl; the withered grass was scratchy against her skin and the ground was damp, yet there was no better place to rest for the night. Curling in on herself, shifting back and forth, Rell tried to take no notice of the sounds around her. A faint rumble travelled through the ground, steady and continuous, like many feet marching endlessly. The sound came from far off, yet echoed in the hollow land so that Rell knew not whether it came from one direction or another. Or perhaps it was but tricks of her own tired mind.

Attempting to fade into the darkness of night, Rell cowered further into her hideout and waited.

Hoped to escape the attention of the Great Evil that was now her ever-present neighbour.

Her sleep was plagued with creeping terrors, flickering in and out of consciousness, until at length she remained fully awake. No rest would find her again. The ground was hard with frost, and her breathing chilled despite the cloak drawn close to her body. Every so often faint plops echoed somewhere in the dark; the wind danced across the shallow water and stirred the leaves, and the hollow she had found for the night gave little shelter. The only small comfort came from the overcast sky, for while ashen-grey clouds passed unending, there were distant stars to be seen.

Glistening high above, peering out, she watched the light and clung to the frail hope they brought to her.

Day came, and the sun blinked over the lifeless ridges of Ephel Dúath. Her face was grim and set, but resolute. She was filthy, haggard and pinched with weariness, but she cowered no longer, and her eyes were clear. Doubt was still present in her mind, but a newfound purpose – rekindled – was overwhelmingly stronger. Almost as if a hopeful thought had twisted, wormed, its way into her head without her knowing. It was best to carry on with haste, to put a distance between her and the Dark Lands.

Rell ate only a little; roots and berries that did nothing to still her hunger, but there was nothing else to be done. She climbed out of the hollow and looked over the marshes. Black pools shimmered in the muted sunlight, defiled as all else was in the brown fumes that choked the lands; the sky was pale and smoke-streaked, and the wind was cold. In the distance grey and darkened clouds promised rain, but she could not read the wind enough to tell for certain if it would affect her journey. Her hope was the downpour would blow east over the Sea of Rhûn, rather than it would hit her in her trek through the Dead Marshes.

There was a gloom in the air.

When she was finally ready to depart, shoulders hunched and mind heavy, Rell pulled Luin after her; stepping from one small mound of grass to the next, she kept Emyn Muil straight ahead. The ghosts of times long gone would not lure her astray; their whispers would fall on deaf ears, and Rell _would_ leave the marshes. Thoroughly fatigued, the lone Ranger dearly wished to be rid of the stench and the ever-present wetness that left her perpetually soggy. A great obstinacy willed her forward. The Dead Marshes would _not_ break her.

And so she wormed her way forward, bit by bit, until she in the late afternoon came to the edge of a large lake. The mud was deep and yielding, making it difficult for her to step safely, but hope bloomed in her chest. The outer ridges and rocky crags of Emyn Muil were incredibly close, so that she could make out small details in the stones; gnarled and stunted trees grew on the ridges, roots digging with desperation into the rocks. Rell hoped to perhaps reach the foothills before nightfall. She turned and walked slowly along the bank of the lake, skirting around tall clusters of reeds. Her journey through the marshes was at long last over.

A wind blew across the lake, and for the first time in many days it did not carry with it a smell of stagnant decay. It came fresh and cool against her face, and Rell breathed deeply to welcome the change. Beyond the waters stood a tall cliff, bare and bleak, casting a long dark shadow over the fen. Broken highlands rose further off, and while the sight would any other day be a menacing threat it was now well received. The sickly green and sullen brown came to an end, fading as the soft muddy ground turned to stone.

But still there was a way to go, for the lake was long and its waters deep and cold. The day wore on, and when afternoon faded towards evening she was still scrambling along its shores. The gurgling waves lapped against the banks while everything else was quiet. Yet sometimes in the silence of the barren country, Rell thought she heard faint sounds from high above. Often she shrugged it off as the wind sighing over the edges of stone – other times she stilled to listen, hearing stones falling, or the soft pitter-patter of feet. She had never learned of any beast living in the rocky hills, and so she watched with wary eyes for many long moments.

Never did she spot anything amongst the rocks.

At last she was brought to a halt.

The lake narrowed to a small stream, twisting southwest, and it was shallow enough for her to cross without issue. Many stones poked out of the water, and she managed to reach the further bank without wetting her feet. By her side Luin had carved through the surface with glee, splashing droplets everywhere, and was clearly happy to rid itself of dried flaking mud. A grin spread across her face as Rell regarded the horse. "At last we can turn our backs to this foul place! How I hope to never return."

With one final look over the marshes; on the pools and mires, the foggy and treacherous ground; all her misery that had clung to her spirit like mud to her boots now vanished. She turned to the hills ahead. The rock wall reared up, grey cliffs looming above and before her. She could go no further forward from there, and she saw no clear path entering Emyn Muil. There was nothing else to do but turn either north or south. But north would lead her only into more dangerous parts of the wild; and further from the great river Anduin. Away from her uncle, for still Rell clung to her certainty that he had reached the falls of Rauros at one point in his journey.

South would lead her closer to Gondor, back towards where she had come, but of the two it was the preferred road. The _only_ road. She sighed, looking one way and then the other; the westering sun was caught into clouds, and a shadow fell upon the cliffs. "There is nothing for it but to try," the Ranger finally decided. "The road will take me where I am meant to go."

Her only comfort came from the fact she could once more ride rather than walk. The ground was stony, firm enough for Luin to tread without her guidance, and no longer soft with mud. Rell swung into the saddle, drew the reins close as her feet found the stirrups, and slowly they then followed the stream and the dark cliff on her right.

Her spirits were high, elevated by the changes around her, and they were not dampened even as rain began to fall. The drops came steady and soft, turning the stones glossy and the ground inky black; Rell held out her hands, face turned up to meet the grey clouds, and she allowed the mud and grime to be washed away. Cold and fresh, leaving a bite on her cheeks and brow, while droplets trickled into her hair. The rain stopped her mind from worrying, calmed her, but at the same time felt like an exciting buzz throughout her body. Waiting for it to wash away all her suffering and misery that had been a constant companion for many days.

Something new was on the distant horizon.

Good or bad she could not tell.

At the edge of the clouds there was a brilliant white patch, catching the sun, while the rest of the sky was consumed in numerous shades of grey and black. With a clean slip from her cloak, Rell wiped her face; rubbing vigorously until there were no more spots of mud remaining, before pulling the hood over her head. The light seemed to be fading quickly, although the sun had not yet set, and Rell's search for an opening in the rocks grew urgently. She would not spend another night in the marshes.

She carried on for half an hour longer, and so did the rain; it came down in sheets, muffling the sounds of the world around her, painted her vision grey, and it was hard to see much further ahead. Water dripped down into her eyes, soaked her muddied clothes, but still there seemed no end to the downpour. The wall towered up next to her, close enough for her hand to brush the chilled stone, yet no opening was to be found. She glanced up at the great cliff rising up. There was a distant murmur of thunder upon the breeze.

It was then that Rell noticed they were slowly but steadily going uphill; the cliff-top was sinking towards the level of the lowlands. The ridge took a sharp bent, and as she came around the corner a great crack met her. The gully cut straight through, narrow and sharp-edged with many protruding rocks, but it was an opening nonetheless in the unscalable wall. Rell peered into the glum darkness with hesitation, knowing well many things could seek refuge inside; thunder rumbled once more in the distance, and the rain was still falling heavily. It would be risky to enter in the dimness of falling night.

Rell jumped from the saddle.

Drawing her sword, she took a tentative step inside, then another and another, and left Luin by the entrance. Small, loose stones littered the ground; muddy brown rock stood guard on both sides, jagged and uneven, and at first there was little room for her to move more than an arm's length either way. Rills of water ran down its edges, splashed and spouted over the cliff as the clouds emptied. The ground was slippery. It was like walking through a tunnel – and almost just as black.

A flash of lightning lit her path.

But ahead she saw the pathway open onto a larger, tumbled flat of weathered rock. It was a stony hollow, a nook among great jagged pinnacles and ridges, and further ahead the road seemed to continue. It appeared to be a pass into Emyn Muil; though whether it would lead to a dead-end or prove to be one of many ways in the labyrinth, she could not tell in the setting darkness. All she knew was that it provided cover. Many trees had grown there, now dead and gaunt, bitten to the core by the winds; leaving old broken stumps and trunks straggled and twisted.

Deciding, Rell hastily returned for her horse. Although Luin proved dissatisfied with the deep ravine, the mare followed inside.

Rolling rocks threw echoes between the walls, loud and clear above the deafening rain, while Rell made her way to the hollow. For a while she fumbled through the waning light in an attempt to find shelter, at least enough to light a fire, until she came across an overhanging rock; barely high enough above the ground for her to sit below. It would have to make do. The trees were glistening and wet from the rain, but as Rell broke away branches she found the wood rough beneath her fingers. Dry.

Around her everything was lost in a deep blackness, but she turned her back to the rain and sat close to the rising flames. She had found a dry stone, flat and somewhat comfortable; but she knew she would be sore come morning. It did not take long before the fire roared to life, greedily licking at and devouring the logs; orange and red tendrils that made the wood crack and pop. The smell of ash hung heavy in the air, for there was little wind in the gully.

Rell rummaged through her packs, finding at the bottom a clay bowl that had long gone unused. The edges were nicked from use, and the brown bare clay was darkened with soot.

Rell placed it in the rain, allowing water to gather, while she found supplies from the small satchels tied to Luin's saddle. Thunder growled and rumbled in the distance. When the bowl began to overflow, she quickly added mushrooms and roots before placing it over the fire. It could hardly be called a soup, but the warmth was welcome – desperately needed – and she was famished. For a while she sat there, waiting, huddled in on herself. The flames lit up the faces of the rocks and made shadows dance, but beyond there was a wide looming blackness that no light could penetrate.

She drew her cloak closer.

When her supper was ready, Rell munched her way through the chewy broth in silence. Her mind wandered to the feast in Rivendell, so many months ago, yet she also thought the soup tasted far better, somehow, than anything she had eaten for a good while. The lack of rot in the air; the stench that had accompanied her every waking hour, was no more, and it made taste return to her. The bowl was soon empty, scrubbed clean, and returned to the satchel. Rell shifted, back against the wall of the cliff, and with legs pulled close to her chest.

She was no longer drenched but rather damp, and a warm air brushed against her face until her eyes felt heavy.

Sleep came not long after.


	12. The Pale Glow of Night

Where the path through the marshes had been long and dreary, a miserable struggle through sludge and endless mires, Emyn Muil now proved a different – much harsher – challenge. This new stage of her journey brought her now through gullies and crevices; narrow and steep, forcing her to turn back and seek another way, and others wide and climbing, twisting up the rock walls. Often she found herself on the precipice of a great cliff, with nothing but a sheer and dark drop before her into blackness. The maze of stone seemed endless, stretching out around her like a shadowed mesh of grey.

The wind was ever present, never relenting, and it came as howling gales that swept in from the far North. Chill and fresh. A feeling of insecurity grew. It was difficult to find paths wide enough for Luin, and Rell was forced to find other ways around; winding her way forward and back, straying first southward then straight East, yet never did she put much distance between them and the rot of the Marshes. It lingered still in the air. Every waking hour was spend in a climb through the rough landscape, accompanied with dejection and increasing concern. She had seen no sight of neither bird nor beast in the difficult terrain.

Her supplies grew scarce for each passing day.

Would she starve before she found a way through?

Her mind felt muddled, unclear, ever since first stepping foot into the Dead Marshes now many moons ago. A veil drawn across her eyes, so that she could no longer see nor think clearly, and into Emyn Muil it had followed her. The purpose for her journey seemed too far away, unobtainable and soon, with every step over treacherous rocks, Rell came to further doubt her own heart. Her purpose seemed uncertain.

The blackened bruises had long since faded, and the cuts were but reddened scabs on her wrists and leg; almost entirely healed. It was soon three months since her departure from Rivendell, and yet there had been no sign of her uncle, or his path since he crossed the Misty Mountains. The winds hissed like snakes in the deep-shadowed gully, an ever-present companion that often troubled her sleep, and made the days long and cold. She walked with downcast eyes, and her steps were shaky and weak. Fatigue clung to her head, shadowed her gaze with whispers of surrender.

There was bitterness in her mouth; not from food, for she had eaten nothing since the morning before. _Defeat_. The solitary journey had broken her; her spirits, previously thought to be undaunted, were now crushed. Rell knew not when she had allowed cracks of hesitation to fill her heart, but they had festered and grown until little could be done to mend the damage. Perhaps she had abandoned her task long before, as she had sat in desolation on the brink of the marshlands, now mindlessly walking without an end to the journey.

Rell finally came to understand.

She then rocked to a stop, frozen in her steps as fresh, warm tears fell uninvited. They burst from her eyes, like water falling from a dam. The sobs were stifled at first, attempting to hide her grief through sheer will, but soon they became distorted cries. The cries, raw in her throat as they came bubbling out, echoed between the rocks. The stubborn walls in her mind – the walls that held her up and made her strong – collapsed one by one.

Rell would never find her chieftain.

The wind blew chill through the gully to meet her, and before her a wide grey shadow loomed in a deep slope downwards. The sky was overcast, leaden, but even as the first heavy drops of rain fell the Ranger did not move. It was more than crying, it was the desolate sobbing from a person drained of all aspiration. The pain that flowed from her was as palpable as the winter wind; her tears mingled with the rain as she sank to her knees. Seemingly, everything in her mind fell into place, and the thread-like hope snapped. Puddles of water soon formed at her feet. She had thought herself to be in the right, to be wiser than her chieftain, and disregarded his commands.

All he had done was to keep her safe, yet the doom now brought upon her was by her own hand.

Foolish, thoughtless actions of a child. Her sobs stilled, small hiccups that soon passed to silence. A single thought repeated in her mind, slowly, but surely, growing in strength until all else was drowned by it. _Will I die here ...?_

The icy grey sky restlessly grumbled, and the rain came pouring down. The sound of emptiness was disrupted by the loud boom of thunder; the darkness in the sky shifted, lit up by another sudden flash sweeping across the rocklands. Another rumble. Luin danced and stomped skittishly by her side, and the tremors drew her mind back. While the heaviness, both in mind and body, beckoned her to remain until only numbness was left, she could not.

The burden of choice lay before her. Was she truly to forsake her uncle? The foreboding fear that had first driven her to leave the Angle had not faded, but remained raw and clear in her head; even more so in her heart. Yet the reality of starvation and failure was unmistakably clearer. Would she never again see her kin under the Sun?

What help could she give her chieftain, save to walk blindly into her own ruination now? Never would he know the end that came for her. For a long while, minutes or hours she knew not, Rell sat with her head bowed. Her legs cold from the hard rocks. Drops tapped against her hair, trickled down her brow and cheeks, until she was soaked. The endless rain fell like sheets cast over the bleak world, masking all sounds with a thunderous roar that came unbroken. The two powers strove in her. For a moment, perfectly balanced between their piercing points, she was wrecked by all-consuming terror.

Then, suddenly, Rell became aware of herself again.

She came to her feet, cold and wet and afraid, yet even though a great weariness was upon her, her will was firm. Her heart was lighter. Her hands sought Luin's warmth, burying her face in the soft coat as her arms draped around the horse's neck. "I will do now what I must," she whispered; voice cracked and hoarse, for it was long since she had last spoken. "What more can I do? I must go now, or I shall never go. I shall forsake my troth."

Her hands trembled, fingers digging into the grey mane to still her wavering heart.

"I will go home."

It felt like betrayal. Harsh and cruel were her thoughts, but her venture had been desperate, foolish at best, and only now had she come to realize it. Was she faithless to leave? _No._ She took Luin by the reins. The ground was covered in dark pools of water, mirroring the grey and black clouds above, and she traced her way back through the clefts and fissures. Slowly she walked, delayed by her doubts and the weather. Feet heavy and dragging. It felt as if at any time she could turn around, continue a fruitless endevour fueled only by stubbornness. The deluge continued; thunder rumbled in the far distance, and lightning flickered and danced across the sky.

The dull grey hours passed without event. Long formless slopes stretched up and away towards the sky on either side, grey and wretched pillars of rock. It was an unfriendly desolation, where no tree or blade of grass broke the emptiness. The wind changed, and now the rain came down almost sideways, beating into her back with newfound fury; to her it felt as if even the land willed her away.

Truly, her journey had come to an end.

For another hour she walked, finding the rocks both familiar and unfamiliar; new and old, so that she knew not if she had walked there before.

Around her the rain came to lessen, until it was but a soft and cold drizzle falling from patchy clouds, and the silence around her grew. The tip-tap of droplets stilled. Her feet became loud noises as they sloshed through pools or kicked up pebbled stones and rubbles, reverberating throughout the rocklands. Thunder still rolled ever so often in the distance, and every flash made her startle. The sun had set; already it had sunk behind the rim of the world without her notice. Beyond the shadow of the hills the sky was still red. A burning light was under the floating clouds, but where Rell stepped darkness came.

The road dipped and fell, carving its way through steep ridges; she could not mount and ride, for the ground was rough and treacherous. Rell carried on until the path became too dark and her feet too heavy, and there she halted. Amongst tumbled rocks she found a place to rest. The moon had passed into the West, and its light was hidden by the hills and the clouds.

In the black hours of night she rested, but Rell found no sleep; instead she waited for the grey and pale dawn.

Yet long before the rising of the sun, a light came upon the ravine when finally the clouds parted.

The distant moon was almost full, and its glow bathed the hills and cliffs of Emyn Muil in silver. The sky was filled with a pale cold sheen. The rocks gleamed black and hard, with pinnacles sharp as the points of spears, keen-edged as knifes. Rell looked up and caught brief glimpses of the stars, but they were faint and cloaked in haze. Again, all was quiet and still. Twisted and leaning pillars reared their splintered fangs above the ground, still and dark they loomed over her, fencing her in. Her stomach twisted and growled in her hunger, and she shuffled over to Luin; she searched through the satchels, finding only little food and taking even less. The dried berries tasted musty, spoiled, and the roots were hard and stringy.

The food sat uneasy in her stomach, but it did her good.

She drank the last of her water.

With the growing light and the slow approach of morning, Rell prepared to head out once more, when sudden dread came over her. Her hands were cold, and an unease spread across her arms and up her neck. She listened. But she heard no sound – not even the imagined echo of a footfall that had first made her startle. Feeling wary now, she drew Luin after her down the narrow gorge, finding the path before her sloping continuously down and further down. The ground was wet and slippery beneath her feet, and often she stumbled for sure footings. Her eyes were strained to see in the dimness.

She felt watched.

Throughout the day she went one way and another, only to circle back when she came to a dead end; there was no change around her. The rocks were dull company, and it felt as if the walls around her closed in; she knew they were not moving or alive, but at times it felt as if they would crush her where she stood. Her breathing came out ragged, and her brow was cold and clammy. The tricks of her mind left her fearful, afraid. Trapped in the darkness.

Rell did not remember this path.

The feeling only grew worse as day came, for while the sun climbed higher over the horizon it was accompanied by ominous clouds and darkening gloom. Rell was given only a brief glimpse of blue sky and a dazzling light of warmth, and then came the rain. Renewed and heavier than the downpour the day before. It was not long before her clothes were soaked, clinging to her skin as they weighed down her every step. The ground was glossy and hard to tread, and she made very little progress throughout the day. The very weather appeared against her in those long moments; tired to the brink of exhaustion, Rell willed her feet to move, one wobbly step at a time until she could go no further.

Rell all but collapsed when she found a corner, partially sheltered from the storm, and sleep was soon upon her.

It was still night when she awoke, finding the ground wet and the rain but a softened pitter-patter against the cliffs. The darkness was still heavy, hollow and immense, and for a brief instant there was a blaze as lightning flashed across the sky; for a second she saw stones stretching on both sides, walls black and smooth as glass, glittering. The murmur of the rain continued unbroken, but another sound crawled beneath the endlessness of the storm.

It was this sound that had roused her. By her side Luin was alert, ears twitching back and forth.

A single pebble rolled down the cliff above her, clacking loud in the quiet, until it landed with a plop not far from her. Rell stared at the small rock, stock-still, before quickly glancing upwards to where it had fallen from. Where the cliffs previously had been a constant gloom, they now seemed hostile; as if they harboured secret eyes and lurking dangers. Again, she seemed to feel eyes on her.

There was nothing to be seen. But the unease did not fade; her heart was beating loudly in her chest, and she could feel her mind waking painfully with anticipation. She was not alone.

It had been the softest, barely discernible, crunch of a footstep that had awoken her. Again she listened. She felt naked, out in the open in the midst of shelterless lands – an easy target. Rain fell upon her upturned face, and a cold wind howled through the ravine. Rell came to her feet, quietly moving until she stood close to the rock-wall; she pressed an ear against the cold stone and listened carefully. She closed her eyes to better her hearing. Her breath was baited.

Then there came another crunch, this time lighter and slower, as if to be quieter. But Rell had heard it. The sounds; the footsteps, were slowly but surely moving away from her. Had they noticed her presence? Her skin crawled, and the unknown above frightened her. She ran her hands across the rock wall, slowly, carefully, deciding if her newly-formed plan was possible. The rain fell unrelenting, and as her fingers dug into the rocks, they were icy cold against her skin. The precipice was sheer and almost smooth, and in the darkened night it was difficult to find holds; but there could be no more than five, maybe six or seven, ells to the top. _It is possible_ , she decided.

Rell steeled her resolve.

She scrambled for small crevices, fingers and feet shuffling blindly as she slowly climbed the cliff; her body was pressed hard against the stones, cutting into her skin. Rell breathed sharply through her teeth, attempting to move as soundlessly as possible as her own weight pulled her downward. Mostly her fingers found solid holds, narrow and small, but at times the rocks crumbled and she had to scrabble with her feet for a foothold. Whether she had done this in bravery or foolishness, she could not tell, but bold curiosity drew her forward.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the rain was still falling softly. Water fell into her eyes, obscuring her vision, and it was hard to see far ahead in the dark. Again her foot slipped, and a sharp pain shot through her arm when she clutched a razor-edged rock. Warmth trickled down to her elbow. She glanced to the bottom of the gully, now a drop below her. Not wishing to fall, Rell moved only slowly and carefully. The new injury in her hand ached, and every time she grabbed hold with it she winced in pain.

She came to a place where the surface was smooth; there was no hold and the ledges were far apart. Her hands fumbled blindly through the darkness, seeking anything to grasp, all the while her body trembled from exhaustion. It was with desperation that her fingers gripped the faintly protruding ledge a bit ahead, and she could pull herself further up. She panted laboriously as she fought for mastery over herself; squinting up through the darkness, Rell could see the edge of the cliff not far away now. The last arduous leg of her climb.

Rell hauled her body up. Her fingers curled around the top stones, and her head came up above just as a brilliant shock of white flashed across the sky. The lightning ripped through the inky night and blinded her. Her vision swam, and barely had her eyes adjusted to the deep gloom once more, when two pale points of light appeared before her.

Large luminous eyes.

It was a wretched creature; a harsh, rotten breath came from behind sharp and pointed teeth as it spoke. "Hssss, _my precious_ , what hasss we found? Ssso hungry, yes, precious – sss – _gollum!_ "

With a startled yelp, Rell recoiled in sudden terror as twitching fingers reached for her, clawing almost against her cheek, only to find her feet slipping.

She searched for a hold on the rocks, but the trickling rain made her fingers grasp onto nothing; flailing, fighting, she felt herself falling, and in those few moments the world was but a blurred rush. She knew pain was coming. Everything went by fast, yet slow, almost suspended. _Inevitable_. The thought to protect herself barely passed her mind. A scream was on her lips, but no sound came. The last thing she saw was the two pale glowing eyes high above, and a rattling hiss was on the wind.

Then impact.

* * *

Something pooled around her head, warm and wet it spread; through her hair and down her neck. The rain fell as heavy droplets onto her face, splattered against her cheeks like needles. But its icy chill did not hurt – it _could_ not hurt, not compared to the searing pain that shot through her. It increased in waves, small lulls giving false hope of an end. Her breathing was but gurgles, a struggle to breathe, spitting blood. _It hurts_... The night was cold, and the wind blew chill through the pass. There was a snuffling, a harsh hiss of breath thrown around the walls of the gully, loud and all-consuming.

_It_ was getting closer.

She was too weak to stay awake. _Something_ was broken.

Somewhere.

Her eyes flickered into the darkness, but she could see nothing. Could not move.

Eventually the pain settled into a sort of sharp throbbing that dug deep, deep within her and went through anything and everything. The pain became too much for her mind to bear, and she could feel, rather than see, the blackness seeping into her vision. Shadows advancing to smother her. Panic seized her. The eyes! The horrible, pale eyes, flashed in and out of her deadly thoughts, and she struggled to stay awake. _It will eat me, it will eat me!_

But she lay already half in the nightmare, imagining that wretched dark fingers gnawed at her flesh, digging deep and even deeper. Until crimson swirled into one with the dark pools, tearing, pulling, dragging her apart. Her fingers trembled, shaking, but her arms would not move. It was not because of the tears welling up, that her failing eyesight blurred, but rather her mind slipping from consciousness. Everything became fuzzy; then she saw nothing. She wanted to be saved. Throughout the inky space her heartbeats pounded loudly, swift in her terror, echoing in her ears. Feeling her body draining away until, finally, all was black.

The hissing was not from the wind. Getting lower, sharper and clearer, and so much more horrible when all other senses failed her.

It was but a suggestion of movement from beyond her failing vision; it was formless and indistinct, like a piece of shadow shifting. But it was there.

"Ssstill breathing, yes, yesss." It was a voice like no other. So terrible. The dread crept over her, an icy chill that numbed. In her frozen state it offered only one thought. _It is today_. Closer, approaching. Soon there. _I will die here._ She let out a soft moan, fingers scratching across the stones; with a _plop_ she knew the creature had scaled the wall and landed beside her. "Not for long ..." The beating of her heart was ear-splintering loud. So loud it was that even the ground beneath her trembled. Again and again and again.

It rolled over her like thunder, booming through her ears until her mind flashed white.

A high-pitched scream carved through the falling rain, and a long, drawn-out hiss came not far from her. A pitter-patter of feet over the wet stones sounded, shying around her just out of reach, attempting to approach. Closer, then further. For it was Luin, and not her heart, that thundered through the ravine like thunder; the horse stomped and kicked, making the ground tremble. Stones danced. The creature hissed sputtering curses, snarling, yet was continuously turned away by the enraged defense of the fallen Ranger.

"Nassty it is!"

_Good ... Luin ..._

It was to the stomping of hoofs and vicious snarls that darkness claimed her, when the pain became too much, and she sank into the deep depths of unconsciousness. Blood gushed from somewhere; an exposed wound, sticky and warm. Black numbness enclosed around her, until only the beating of her heart could be heard; vigorous, until it slowed. Weakened. _Boom ... Boom ..._ Then all was quiet. _Boom._ No nightmare, no dream, came to her then.

Only blackness.

* * *

The light was pale and clear in a rain-washed sky; the morning dawned bright and fair, encouragingly beautiful. A sight almost rare in the lonely wasteland that had long been a steadfast companion to her. But Rell could not marvel at nor cherish the pale strips of blue; the softness of the wind, and the warm caresses of the pale sun on her skin. She could feel air blown into her hair, and a heartbeat not her own; sensing the large, loyal animal pressed close to her side like a solitary rock shielding the land from the ocean's wrath.

There was a growing ache soon turning to pain and a deadly chill in her body.

It was difficult to move, and the pain felt as if it came from everywhere. So much pain, in her arms and legs; but worst of all she feared the damage to her back. The blood around her head. She lay motionless and listened fearfully to the sounds of her surroundings; howling winds in the rocky gaps, water dripping, the rattling clacks of a loosened stone. There was a constant feeling that the creature, strange and cruel to behold, would return. To choke the life from her with its long and gangly hands. There was an echo as of following feet; first it came from high above, then suddenly from behind her and to the side, moving one way then another.

Rell shut her eyes and willed her mind away, to focus her everything on the faithful companion by her side. On the warmth. She forced back bile, rising in her throat, and a searing flash of white crossed her vision. There was no escape from here. Only waiting, long and painful, and only the Valar would truly know her fate. Was she to wait for a slow and painful death to claim her? Wither away from either her injuries or starvation? With a last effort, she prayed in her mind to the hidden lights in the sky, to Elbereth and Eärendil, _let me not die here._

Again her senses failed her.

She could only hope Luin would protect her.

Everything else around her had dissolved like it was never there at all, and in the darkness of her mind nothing seemed important – life, death, pain. If only it could end with swiftness it would be a mercy. The despair was worse than the hurt of her body, the agonizing and slow wait for the unknown a vice-like grip of agony on her heart. Of endless waiting.

In the long hours that followed Rell lay between waking and sleep, wavering between her exhaustion and the will to move. The will to live. Uneasy dreams wove through the flickering moments of clarity and great torment, in which she walked in the meadows and hills of Eriador. She sat by the fire with her uncle, or dipped her feet in the cold spring waters in Rivendell. She fought and sparred with her friends in the Angle, or hunted deer in the forests.

Yet, the light in her dreams seemed dim and faint, and the lanky shadow that crept after her appeared all the more clear. The hissing came with the wind, close, its rotting stench filling the air as if the creature breathed down her neck. But when she turned around to look, there was nothing. She would startle awake, shivering and frightened; a fevered delirium that blurred the world around her. Turned the long shadows into flickering ghosts, and the wind hissing and biting as if to reach her very bones.

When she truly woke again the light was failing, and day was slowly turning to another night. Dusk was falling rapidly. Rell struggled to move; carefully determining the damage, first in her fingers and toes. Wriggled them, slowly, with great attention. Then, whimpering as pain cut sharply through her body, she tried to move her head sideways. Luin shifted and a breath of warmth blew into her hair. _Try again ..._ It was with a searing, burning rush throughout her body and tears running unceasingly, that Rell could now see the silvery-grey coat of Luin, curled around her.

The tears stemmed not only from great pain and effort, but also a deep relief that then flooded her senses.

In her heart of hearts she had feared so much worse.

_This_ , the very small movement of her head, at least, was a start.

Rell swallowed, mouth rough, dry; there was a taste of iron and mud, and a cough drew past her lips. Painful and raw. She was so, so very thirsty. With unsteady, twitching fingers, she fought to raise her hands. Her left arm lay limp by her side, and as she twisted her head – teeth clenched in agony – it was easy to see why. Her eyes shut tightly at the sight, and nausea pressed against the back of her throat. Mangled flesh, dark crimson and a pale white intermingled; the bone was bent out of shape.

When she opened her eyes again to look at the injury, tendrils of pain shot through her and she felt sick. _Breathe_. Rell tried to fight off the shock, slowly but surely blanketing her senses, until all she could do was watch. She could feel blood draining from her face, and a shakiness was in her searching, seeking fingers. _The other arm ..._ _check the other arm!_ Her voice pleaded, forcing her at last to turn away her gaze. She swallowed once more, bracing herself for what was to come, and then she swiftly turned her face.

In the little light that flowed down between darkening clouds, she could see great purple welts; grotesque against her pale and clammy skin, spreading purple with yellow blotches. It hurt to breathe. To her relief she could see no broken bones. Her left side had taken the worst of the fall and spared her right; she directed all her strength into the limb less injured. It was hard to find the courage to keep up, and so she focused on one small part at a time; to clench her fingers, and to stretch them again. Then her wrist, slowly and carefully, to see if it could move without pain.

It took many long minutes, and often she had to pause in her exhaustion. Breathing heavy and ragged.

Then she carried on. It was only one small step at a time, painfully long and agonizing, when finally Rell could tenderly run her fingers over the broken bones of her left arm. She dared not touch; only hover slightly over, leaving ghostly trails that barely brushed the limb. Even _that_ hurt. Bone-white shimmered into view, when she carefully drew the sleeve aside; it was an open fracture, and the splinter of bone had torn through tissue. A whimper of protest pressed against her clenched teeth.

Whether the Valar had held a hand of protection over her, or it was mere chance, it seemed like no major veins had been severed. Yet the loss of blood was nevertheless grave, if the crimson pool was anything to go by. There was very little she could do then, and instead Rell turned her focus to her back and head.

Her fingers moved slowly, searchingly, over her elbow; to her shoulder, where the skin had turned blackish-blue and yellow. With hesitation she pressed down on tender flesh, biting back cries, but found nothing bent out of shape.

When she then came to her head, she first found her hair sticky and matted with thick, drying blood.

The rocks beneath her were smooth and flat, but their edges were jagged. Her fingers found what they were looking for; on the back of her head there was a long, though narrow, gash. The skin was torn and swollen, where blood was continuously seeping out. Yet, to her great relief, it was but a shallow cut. Fluid had accumulated around the wound, and a bump the size of her palm was pulsing as she cupped it in her hand. Momentarily, Rell closed her eyes and calmed her breathing. Stars danced across her darkened eyelids, and a dizziness clouded her mind.

Thinking was difficult, strained and hard to force.

Around her nighttime approached with swiftness; shadows crawled across the ravine, seeping down its sides until it became hard to see. The sun had set, and dusk had gathered. The moon came high in the dark-blue sky, a thin silvery sphere that gave her very little light. Only a handful stars peered between veiling clouds. Rell breathed deeply, squaring her wavering heart for what was next to come.

The hand fell to her side again. It was shaking from her exhaustion, bruised and in pain, yet Rell knew she could not stay; she had to move, and could not just so easily turn a blind eye to her wounds – even if she dearly wished to. They needed urgent care, especially her arm, if she was to hope to ever use it again, let alone not die from it. The dark and blackened bruises would fade; the cut on her head likely heal on its own in time. But the broken bone had to be set. The very thought turned her skin clammy. Rell swallowed.

"Luin," she called with an effort.

She tapped the ground by her right side, calling the horse to her. The large animal stood, and already she missed the warmth against her body. The beating of hooves against the rocks echoed into the silence, sprung between the towering walls of stone that watched her in silence. Soon the horse lay down on the spot Rell had indicated to; deep clever eyes watched her, nostrils blowing air against her outstretched hand.

She ran her palm across the soft coat, leaning into the touch, while her fingers grasped for the leather halter tied to the mare's head. It was with much difficulty that the Ranger drew herself up; if not for the great horse by her side, she could not remain sitting. Her head swam, and the air felt cold and sharp in her lungs. Rell gasped for breath, and she nearly doubled over. Nausea clawed at her throat, and she tried to force down the bile, but it was too late.

She threw up.

Her stomach kept on contracting violently and forced everything up and out. A pungent stench invaded her nostrils, and she heaved, coughing and choking, even though there was nothing left to go. She had eaten so little over the last many days. Tears stung the corner of her eyes as futile whimpers for help spilled from her lips. Rell clung to the halter, her fingers clenching and unclenching in shivering twitches, until the contractions eased. Cold sweat trailed down her brow, drippled into her eyes, and a bitterness coated the insides of her mouth.

At some point she must have passed out, but for how long Rell could not tell.

Cool twilight surrounded her; it was still dark, and the black abyss stretched far around her.

She was drenched with sweat. Her eyes roamed down the length of her body, for the first time seeing the entirety of her injury; she could remember only very little of the fall, but she must have somewhat lessened the blunt of the impact. A breath of almost palpable relief escaped her lips. Her legs were unharmed. They pulsed and hurt, but could move without issue. Rell drew closer to Luin and linked her arm through the reins; it took several long moments of hesitation, expectant of the pain that would come, before she gave a feeble command.

"Up, Luin." The large horse steadily came to stand, while Rell stood with trembling legs and clung to its muscular neck. A blinding flash of agony stabbed through her left arm, hanging slack against her side. She drew it to her chest with her uninjured hand, supporting the fractured bone as best as she could, while she talked Luin over to the cliff wall. She needed shelter – and a place to lean against to fix the mangled mesh that was her arm, for on her own she could not even stay upright.

After long moments that left her breathless, Rell slumped, rather than sat, against the solid stones of the bluff. Her back was against the wall. She closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them once more it was with a quavering heart. With tender appraisal, Rell cradled the arm as her fingers meticulously prodded the ruined flesh. Blood oozed out, soaked into the fabrics and the tangy smell of iron wafted into the air. It was hard to see anything in the deep dark of the Winter night, and she relied heavily on her sense of touch.

She had _seen_ broken bones before. Both how healers handled such an injury, but also how her fellow Rangers went about it in the wilderness; when there was little else to do than snap the fragments into place, and then pray for the best. The image that then came to her mind made her dizzy, senses clouded in anticipation of the pain. Usually someone held down the injured person, while others worked on the bone.

Rell doubted the courage of her heart. How could she do it _alone_?

Slowly, she came to sit up straight; her head was pounding, like the steady beat of a drum, and she focused on the repeating thuds as she settled the arm between her legs. She searched, pressing down the length of the bone, until her hand settled on the fracture. Every part of her body screamed for her to cease, yet her fingers continued; Rell had to be sure before she could do anything. She wriggled her legs until her lower arm was partly gripped between her thighs; held in place for what was to come. There was no room for hesitation. She took a deep breath, banished the wavering of her heart and mind, and clenched her teeth.

_Thud-thud, thud-thud._

Then she snapped the bone into place.


	13. A Frail Light of Hope

Strangely enough, when Rell woke again she felt refreshed. She had been dreaming, of what she could not remember; yet the dream had been pleasant, and there was still the ghost of a smile on her lips when she opened her eyes. At first she felt disoriented, mind muddied by confusion. The dark shadow of night had passed, and a fair vision lay upon the tall ridges of Emyn Muil. The sun was cold, but bright, skirting the jagged teeth of rock with a light both clear and biting in her eyes. Morning had already passed.

Her head was blurred still by exhaustion, from the sharp pain and the fatigue that had drained much of her spirit. A twang carved through her mind, making her finch and pull a face, yet sleep had not been without its healing features. Then she slowly sat up, leaned against her uninjured hand and settled against the wall. Her trousers were stained red with blood, a large patch that had seeped through the fabric, but the blooming flower had already turned darker; it had not bled much recently. Rell brushed her hand over the fracture with gentle attention.

It stung, and her muscles seized up. Purple welts lined the open tear, though the bone was no longer bent at an odd, sickening angle. The pain in her arm had lessened, dulled with the setting of the bone, yet still it lay limply in her lap. Her brow was furrowed as she willed her fingers to move, and she let out a small breathy laugh as they twitched and curled. The tension in her shoulders crumbled, for a fear – one she had tried to hide in the deepest, darkest corner of her mind – had lingered long over her.

If she had lost the use of her arm, Rell could not imagine what she would have done.

She continued to examine her injury for a while longer. It was only when her hunger became too great, and she could no longer disregard the aching discomfort that she turned her attention elsewhere. There was still no strength in her legs, so she called Luin to her once more; the horse came to lie by her side, muzzle brushing against her shoulder in greeting, and nostrils flaring as it picked up the scent of blood. Rell fumbled through the satchels for something to eat and fresh bandages.

Her mind was set to the task, but her ears remained alert to her surroundings. She had not forgotten the fearsome creature. It had haunted her every fevered nightmare, a lurking shadow drawing ever closer; pale eyes that found her no matter where she hid. At the mere thought, a shiver ran through her and a stab of pain shot through her arm.

Rell loosened the last leather bag of dried roots from the saddle.

She slumped in dejection, tired and discouraged as she peered inside, for there was so little left.

Torn between eating the last moldy remains now, or saving them for the long journey ahead, Rell drew her lower lip between her teeth. They were chapped, dry, and a taste of tangy iron lingered. She had no water, neither to drink nor to clean her injuries. The risk of infection hung heavy over her mind. In the end she ate a few stringy roots, just barely enough to quench the worst bite of need, and instead rummaged about for clean linens.

It took a long while to wrap her broken arm, fumbling and redoing it several times over, but at last she could rest. Her fingers were coated in crimson; sticky and warm, yet the skin was paler than ever before. Feebly, Rell tried to rub them clean against her tunic, until at length she gave up on the endeavour. She was much too tired. Eyelids so incredibly heavy, and soon it became a struggle to even remain awake. Rell turned her head, careful as the gash brushed against cold stone, and looked to Luin with half a smile.

The horse returned her gaze with steadfast devotion. Rell tried to speak, but the words felt coarse in her throat; she wetted her lips. "It is fine," she said. Again she touched the silvery coat with fondness, soft like silk against her shaking hands. How pale they looked even in the light of sun! Luin pressed its head against her hand and snorted. She swallowed a lump. "You need not stay with me. I am tired – _drained_ – and I do not think I can carry on anymore. Leave me here to sleep and go on home." Her chin dropped to her chest.

The struggling ceased, and her eyes closed.

"I know you can find your way."

But her companion would not let her rest. A loud whinny tore through the gully, and she felt a gust of hot air against her face as Luin nudged her; rough and insistent, adamant until Rell looked up. Her eyebrows were scrunched up, but a tired laugh played on her lips. With satisfaction, the horse lay its head on the ground and appeared to have no intention of leaving any time soon. Rell smiled, leaning down to rest against the large and warm body; moving with every breath drawn, and she could hear the constant beat of a heart.

"You should not die here with me," she mumbled, but her heart was glad.

It was to her a frightful thought; to be left alone in the desolate hills, to wither away until no strength was left. The creature had fled from the wrath of Luin, escaped the trampling hooves, but how far? Rell could not know if it would return, sneaking back with the crawling shadows of night. Waiting. Biding its time. With her eyes closed, she could see the gangly creature in her mind. So strange – pale and thin – it was, yet also horrifying to behold.

Never before had she seen anything quite like it. Truly it could be nothing else but a creature spawned of evil, though she still wondered of what use it was to the Grey Wizard. What importance was it, to be hunted so throughout the lands? The long, chilled hours of day passed as Rell pondered many things; weary exhaustion made her thoughts slow and dull, and often sleep claimed her. Restless were her dreams, clouded and joyless, laced with pressing desperation that made her snap awake. Drenched in cold sweat and heart hammering.

Many a time she tested her limbs, but great uncontrollable trembles racked her body so that standing became impossible. The effort left her breathless.

The light around her had become grey, for the sun had then climbed from East to West and was now only peeking out over the black ridges. A gloom fell on her; the air was damp, as if mists crawled slowly across the ground. Rell drew her legs close and curled the cloak around herself, seeking warmth to protect her from the approach of night. She dearly wished for a fire but no trees grew in the gully, and she was too weak to find any twigs or branches of use. There was frost in the air, turning her breath to crystals before her.

An idea came to her.

She loosened the straps around the saddle and pulled the empty satchels down to her. Making sure they were empty, she then piled them near her on a slab of stone; there was little use of them if she was frozen to death. It was difficult to rouse a fire, but soon small orange flames licked against the leathers much to her delight. Black swirls of smoke welled up, twisting and curling between the towering stones, as wind picked through the gully.

She shifted closer, feeling a prickling warmth skim across her skin as the cold abated. Then, flanked by the fire on one side and Luin on the other, Rell allowed sleep to claim her, and she drifted off into the darkness. No hissing creature came to her dreams that night. All before her was a formless grey of nothingness, where not even the dull aches of her wounds mattered much to her. Deeper and deeper she fell, swallowed by her own harrowed mind.

Suddenly she was torn from the dream.

Falling, her eyes snapped open and her arm shot out to brace against the ground. Disoriented and with thoughts whirring through her mind in bewilderment, Rell saw her horse rise and leave her side. "Luin?" She asked. The sky was without cloud, and many stars were strewn across a deep blue; the moon hung high and large above, making the frost-covered stones shimmer like precious gems. The fire was but embers.

Hooves clip-clopped in the silence. Rell could do nothing more than watch as her companion stepped into the darkness, disappearing behind the tall ridge.

"Luin!"

Her voice died between the stones. Rell scampered to her feet, fingers digging into the stone to draw herself up, as confusion raged within. She did not understand. Her breathing became more rapid, more shallow, until they were but short gasps; panic took hold of her. _Do not leave me._ In her haste she forgot her injuries, and only when her knees buckled and sent her hammering into the rocks, did she realize she could not follow. Let alone stand. Pain sprung through her muscles as Rell crouched on the ground. _Please, come back ..._

It did not take long before the clacks became soft, dulled, and finally falling into silence once more. She was alone.

Only shadows were left, her lone companions that haunted and suffocated her. Rell pressed the palm of her hand against her eyes, hard, until lights danced across her eyelids; something wet trickled down her cheeks. She had _asked_ the horse to leave – so how could she blame it? But the harsh rawness of abandonment still cut deep, and it was a painful reminder. The Ranger would likely die amongst the rocky cliffs of Emyn Muil. The terror of death lay long above her.

A patch of cloud sailed across the sky, obscuring the moon's view, and coated the lands in true darkness.

For many moments she sat there, and long minutes passed; only the wind was to be heard, howling through the cracks it blew cold from the North. Gnawing it was against her back, cool it bit into her skin. She clutched her injured arm, sending prayers to the Valar that, somehow, she was not without hope. She was not abandoned. That this would not be the end. Yet time dragged unending, and there was no change around her. "Come back, come back!" She called with a voice weakened.

It felt hard to breathe.

Again, the clouds broke and light filtered into the gully. Pale and silver. The wisps of white mists that had crawled across the ground were drawn away, borne upon the stiffening breeze. With a final crackle, the fire hissed and died out.

And it was in those moments that a sound came to her; faint, merely a tremor that shook the ground at first, and she raised her head to peer into the darkness. Rell held her breath in waiting, hoping beyond all else that her ears had not failed her – that it truly was what she believed. The sound of hooves could be heard, and moonlight soon glinted upon the silver coat that came into view. Her heart skipped in joy as she cried out. "Luin! You came back!"

At the same moment she then saw a dark shape approaching slowly on the path behind the horse, slipping through the shadows almost unseen. He was tall, a dark standing shadow, and her flickering eyes sought for her weapons. She gripped the hilt of her sword tightly, slowly, carefully, slipping onto her heels to lunge forward. She knew well there was little she could do if it came to a fight. Barely her trembling hands could hold the weight.

Then his clear voice rang out. "I did not believe my own eyes, but truly it is so. You are here before me. Yet how it has come to be, I do not know."

Rell dropped the sword.

There, before her in the gloom of Emyn Muil, stood her uncle.

* * *

Her eyes brimmed with tears, and she gave a shout of astonishment. Rell gazed at him in wonder. She had been blessed by the mercy of the Valar! His grey hood was drawn across his features; his clothes ragged, dirtied with mud and dust from a long road, and he looked as haggard as she felt. But the eyes under his deep brows were bright; between wonder and fear he stood for a long moment. Silent.

Rell could find no words to say.

At last he stirred. With swift steps her chieftain came forward; purposeful the Ranger crouched before her, stooping close, and large hands cupped her face. A gloved thumb trailed across her cheek, gently tilting her head one way and then another as he regarded the swelling bruises. Rell flinched at the touch, though it was not ungentle. He swiped away a solitary tear, cold and wet upon her skin, and he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. He did not lessen his appraisal. Then he lowered his eyes, gaze flickering across her many injuries until settling on her broken arm. A frown came to his brow.

She leaned forward to rest her head against his shoulder, seeking the comfort and warmth of closeness. The last remnants of strength were swiftly leaving her tired body, seeping away; her eyes closed, and her breath came laborious when she finally managed to speak. "I _fell_."

Again, he said nothing.

Instead her arm was carefully turned over and examined, a tender touch that made her wince in pain. He let out a soft thoughtful hum, pressing here and there, before returning to a previous part of the limb. Up, then back down. The movement of her fingers and elbow was tested. Her mind was but a blur, unfocused and weak, and her vision swam when she tried to look up once more. For a long moment she savoured the familiar smells that wafted up from her uncle; the pipe-weed, the faintest touch of rain and dampness, and his mere presence calmed her frayed spirits. He was truly there – with _her_. He had found her, rescued her when all else seemed utterly dark and hopeless.

All at once, her long journey came rushing back to her like vivid pictures burned into her memory. Rell clutched the coarse fabric of his tunic, distraught eyes seeking his as words spilled from her mouth. "The creature! I saw it, just here in Emyn Muil! I followed the sounds and I climbed." Cold sweat coated her skin. "It was so terrible to behold, uncle, and it reached for me ... I lost my grip, and I fell," she said, motioning with her uninjured hand to her wounds. She swallowed. The pain came back to her and her grip tightened, turning her knuckles white.

Rell remembered the drop all too vividly.

"It should not have gone far yet, there is still time to catch it if only–"

"No," Aragorn quietened her with swiftness. "I know well it is here, for I have followed its tracks for many days now. Whether it followed your path, or it came with an unknown purpose, I cannot tell. But neither is it important in this moment." He brushed hair from her face, concern clear in his grey eyes; silver they appeared in the moonlight, wise and deep, and a tautness held his posture rigid. "We must tend to your injuries – and you have much to tell me while we do so. When I saw your horse coming out to meet me in the ravine, I was at first angered by the sight. I still am," he added and gave her a long hard look.

Rell diverted her gaze to the ground.

"Yet I am anxious, first and foremost. Your safety, your life, is irreplaceable." He drew from his bag a leather satchel and placed it on the ground before him. Then he searched through its contents. "You are not meant to be here," he stated. His voice was neither cruel nor reproachful, but still it dug deep, and shame washed over her; a tide that swallowed all else. All she had done, her long journey and all her mistakes, came back to her now; raw, harsh, they dug into her. She was well aware of the reality. The consequences of her actions. The Ranger carefully began to undo the bloodied rags, tied with difficulty and inconsistency, around her broken arm. "Yet here you are."

"I felt like you needed me," Rell sniffled, the excuse naught but a feeble attempt to explain her foolishness. The shame burned more than her wounds. "And so it was that I tried to follow you ..." It did very little to soothe the ache in her heart, to confess her misbehaviour and the disregard of his orders. New and warm tears rolled down her cheeks as she watched his work; his fingers were slow and careful, making sure to not bring unnecessary pain to her. Clotted blood clung to the fabrics. "I am sorry, uncle. Truly, I am."

When Aragorn had finally cleaned the exposed wound, he turned the limb one way and another with caution as his fingers trailed searching touches from her wrist to her elbow. "You did well on your own," he said. "But this is not enough." He slowly stood, allowing her arm to return to her lap, before he looked back into the gloom from whence he had come; for a brief moment his gaze returned to hers, grey eyes sparkling silver. Regarding her thoughtfully.

Then he walked away, soon disappearing between the shadowed cliffs and further, out of her sight.

Rell peered after him, into the gloom of night, as fearful thoughts wove into her mind. Would he return? Her fingers tightened, digging deep into the skin of her leg. Her eyes sought the comfort of distant and cold stars far above, tiny dots in a dark sky. _No,_ she thought, _he would never abandon me – not here, not in a place like this._ The distraught but faithful thought was her only comfort, and she clung to it with desperation; waiting, hoping, that the cloaked figure would emerge from the shadows once more. And quickly.

She cupped her sleeve and wiped her tear-stained face, sniffling, and watched the still rocks that surrounded her. Tall and grim they appeared, their tops lost in a deeper blackness, yet they no longer seemed menacing to her frayed heart. Her uncle would protect her now; the gangly, horrid creature could harm her no more, even if she could still hear its hiss upon the wind. Even if it felt ever-present around her.

It would haunt her for many days to come, if not months.

The late hour of night stretched unending, and Rell knew not how long she waited; her trust in her uncle chased away any fretful and fleeting fears of abandonment before they could take root. He would come back. There was a dull ache throughout her body, a constant pain that oozed into her mind and she felt drowsiness come over her. She was hungry and tired; beaten and bruised. She shifted against the hard, cold stones beneath her, careful not to startle her injuries. In silence she sat, ever glancing from side to side and listened to the sounds of the rock-lands.

Beneath the shadow of the rock she felt small.

With quiet footsteps, Rell could finally hear her uncle's approach from beyond the sharp bend of the ravine; she allowed a heavy breath to escape her, and her shoulders sagged in relief. In his arms he held a bundle of twigs and wood. He watched her briefly before searching the gorge for something; the veiled moon shed some light upon the rocks, but it took him a while to find what he was looking for in the dimness of night. He crouched down near broken stones, where the ground hollowed out and the cliff wall slanted slightly inwards.

Here he placed down the collected wood, and not long after a fire came to light up the night; plumes of grey weaved into the air, and a glow came on the rocks. Warmth bathed the face of her uncle, orange and red and yellow, and the flames leapt, devouring feverishly, the dry sticks. Even from where she sat, Rell could feel the heat _–_ or at least so it felt, for long had a chill held claim to her body.

Aragorn then returned to her and, wordlessly, drew an arm around her back and shoulders. Rell was eased to her legs, trembling like a new-born foal; unstable and wary, but her uncle supported her when her own strength failed. He helped her forward, towards the fire, and it was not long after that Rell could slump down against the wall of the steep cliff. Here, there was shelter from the coldness of the wind.

Already she was breathing heavily. But the warmth brushed against her skin, soft caresses that slowly, but surely, lulled her asleep; though she could not rest.

Not yet.

Rell forced her eyes open.

There was no hesitation as Aragorn worked swiftly. He looked through the bags fastened to Luin's saddle, whispering soft words to the horse as he did, quickly finding the clay bowl he had searched for; then he filled it with water from his waterskin and placed it by the fire. While the water simmered, he came again and knelt beside her. He held a hand to her brow. Rell watched him through heavy eyelids, stifling a yawn, and saw his face grey with weariness. Such dread and unneeded worry she had caused him! Forgiveness would be hard to ask for.

Then he drew the satchel from his back and found, draped in thin cloths, leaves familiar to her.

He laid three leaves in his hands and crushed them; a freshness, clear and comforting, filled the air, and Rell could feel the exhaustion leave her uneasy mind. Her heart felt lighter. It was as if the very air sparkled. The Ranger then cast the leaves of _athelas_ into the bowl of steaming water, and the smells bloomed. Pinewoods and clear waters; crystal rain in Spring, and the softness of grass touched only by the morning's dew. She could feel the worst of the pressure that had been building behind her eyes fade away. The fatigue was still there, as was the hurt – she would not be running through the Emyn Muil any time soon – but she did not feel as raw as she had moments before.

"Have you other injures?" Aragorn asked and drew her attention back to the present.

"Yes," Rell said, running her hand slowly across the back of her head. "A cut, though it is not very deep and only needs cleaning; and bruises on my shoulder and legs. My arm took the blunt of my fall."

Her chieftain nodded, considering her words, as he soaked a white cloth into the water; first he laved her brow with it, and it seemed then that the first pale light of a fair morning rose out of the shadows to the far East. Next, he cleaned the cold and motionless arm, washing away the dirt and stones embedded in the raw, torn flesh, until it glowed red against her whitened skin. Rell bit into her lower lip, keeping her features blank despite the sting, and watched quietly.

Another cloth was wetted, and she was then instructed to clear her remaining wounds where needed. Meanwhile Aragorn withdrew new and fresh linens from her bags, and then began the meticulous work of rebinding the broken limb; the white strips were pulled tight across her arm, wound around with much greater precision than her own earlier attempts. Soon she could feel the continuously dull throbbing fade, and a numbness came instead.

There was room in her mind for other things now; first and foremost, she could feel gnawing tugs of hunger, and her stomach let out a low rumble that, at once, caught her uncle's attention. He paused in his work, resting his hands against her arm, before he looked up. "When did you last eat?" He questioned, brow furrowed as if only now noticing the sullen gauntness upon her face. Her lips felt dry and chapped, hands and legs as heavy as ten stones where once that had been vigour. Indeed, how long ago had it now been?

"I do not remember clearly," she said with hesitation. "Perhaps two, possibly three, days ago I had some berries and roots. They quenched the worst bite of hunger – and I had some water. Before then I cannot recall. There is not much to find in these lands, and the days are much the same ..."

Aragorn frowned. "Then it is a good thing I have brought food with me," he said, once more returning his attention to the bag by his side. The smell came quickly, wafting into the air and made water fill her mouth, and he found inside dried meat and bread; enveloped in large, yellowing leaves and flax-strings that brought a memory to her mind.

"You passed through Lothlórien?"

He shook his head, removing the wrappings to hand her a loaf of bread. Gladly she accepted. "No," he then said, "I came only to the outskirts of the forest and walked within sight of the border-wardens; they came to me on my journey, by fortune, and food I received to aid me onward." While the Ranger told his story, he once more tended to her wounded arm; he rifled through a small pile of wood, not used to feed the flames, and found two pieced useful to him. "For a night and a day I stayed with them. News we shared, but I was swift on my way once more through the woodlands at the banks of the Anduin. With haste I had to follow the words brought by the Elves of Mirkwood."

The lengths of the splints were compared to her arm, turned one way and then another to properly fit, until Aragorn finally seemed satisfied. He chipped away a small protruding part with his knife.

Rell listened with rapt attention, for she then heard a tale previously untold; speculations had been her company throughout a long and arduous journey, a way over fen and field where every step had been plagued by doubt. Which way had her uncle taken, and had she been right in her choices? She winced as he pressed the splints tight on both sides of her bone, securing them with thin cords of rope. What had been his purpose? "I tried to find your tracks along the Great River, but I found nothing."

He briefly assessed his work, tugging on the strings, and deemed it acceptable. At last he made a sling of linen.

Then he looked at her.

"That would have been a difficult task, indeed, even for a seasoned hunter." The waterskin was offered to her, urging her to drink until there was no more, before he spoke again. Rell drank greedily, feeling his gaze upon her. When she returned it to him, empty, he gave her a piece of meat and carried on. "I left my horse with them – whether it will find a new home beneath the golden trees, or returned to Rivendell, I cannot say. I travelled the river by boat, only stepping onto the banks in the late hours of night, until I came to the most southern part of the Brown Lands. Then, by foot, I came around the Emyn Muil."

Thoughtfully, Rell chewed on her food, picturing the long pathless ways through a desolate desert; formless withered slopes, without tree or grass to hide the small, grey figure of a lone Ranger. Never had she expected him to leave his horse, nor take the North-way around the rocky hills. Orcs and other evil creatures often moved in great numbers there. How mistaken she had been! "I went South," she said, gulping down the salted meat despite a dryness in her mouth. Still, there was a grave hunger present, yet the many days without food also made it hard for her to stomach much. Rell felt nauseous.

"Through Rohan?"

"Yes, and then I followed the river into Gondor." Rell told only very little of her own journey, far too concerned and interested in her uncle's path through the Wilderland. "I was given leave to pass the ford of Cair Andros. My intention had been to meet you somewhere in the marshlands, since I believed you were to come through Emyn Muil. For what reason I still do not know," she added, hoping the anticipation in her heart did not seep into her voice. So many questions filled her mind, whirled into one tangled mess that she, alone, could find no answers to.

Yet her uncle knew her well, and his grey eyes regarded her long and with sternness.

She squirmed under his gaze; wetting her lips before swallowing. For a long while he said nothing, but at length he let out a sigh and nodded. "Very well. Here, then, more shall be made clear to you, and perhaps your inquisitive mind will find some peace." He settled on the ground and drew his cloak tight. "Our home is in the North; us, Rangers of the wild, hunters of the Enemy," he began. Rell did not understand why he started as he did, but she remained quiet and shifted closer to the flames. Her head came to meet his shoulder. "Mostly we find our foes in Eriador and Arnor, and many leagues lie between here and our home. So, what made me cross mountains and plains, into far countries where others are tasked with protecting the peace?

"To fully understand my reasons, one must first look to another time and another story; though this story is keyed together by speculation and guess-work, where I only know parts. Not even Gandalf, for it was he that set me to the task, knows the full tale. But you will now hear all that I know, and I know that my trust in you will not be misplaced. What you hear now will never part from your lips again."

Aragorn fell silent, gazing eastward to the far horizon where a pale blue-grey tinted the clouds.

Dawn crept over the lands of Mordor.

Rell pulled her legs close, knees under her chin; no longer did she feel tired. "I promise," she said.

And so it was that the Ranger told her about a company of thirteen Dwarves and a Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, on a quest to reclaim a long-lost kingdom from a dragon of old. Of a strange creature, lurking in the deep darkness beneath the Misty Mountains; a game of riddles, and a magical ring hiding its wearer from the Seen world. A _gift_ , it had been called. But the creature was not a known evil of the world, so strange that for a long time it remained in the mind of one person of wisdom, who once had heard the tale. The Grey Wizard had grown increasingly concerned, until at last he sought counsel with the Dúnedain chieftain. The hunt began.

Rell listened with amazement, but though she wished to question and consider every step, she kept quiet. Mostly her thoughts fell upon the ring; a cold chill crawled across her skin, slowly, dreadful. It had been the wizard's guess that this creature – this _Gollum –_ would search for the ring, and in so he had been right. It left its dark sanctuary beneath the Misty Mountains, lured out by some vile purpose. Yet the wretched Gollum escaped the watch and disappeared into the wild, without a trace or tracks to follow.

"The Elves of Mirkwood had seen a ghostly-pale creature sniffing about their borders, so told their emissaries, and they had once been asked to watch for it. But long before they could capture him, he had slipped away south," Aragorn continued. "That is now many moons ago, for there are leagues upon leagues between the Elvenking's Halls and Rivendell, and long I feared the trail had gone cold. While the Elves would not go far beyond their own borders, it would seem Gollum was headed closer to Mordor from what they could tell ... Though what dark and evil purpose he had in mind I cannot imagine."

"I believed you had left to hunt for the creature, the one we had looked so long for, when I read your letter to Halbarad–" She avoided his eye."–and I, too, came here so very close to the Dark Land with this in mind. It would seem that we walked two different paths, yet our journeys ended in much the same way. But why would Gollum come here? Is he a creature wrought by the evil of Sauron, called back to its master's side?"

"No," Aragorn said. "I do not believe he is, at least not entirely and wholly."

The memory of pale eyes and grasping hands came to her, and Rell shivered. There had been a strange green gleam in the fathomless orbs. "Certainly there is evil in him!"

"Perhaps." The last twigs were cast upon the flames as the first light of morning came; thin and pale strips coating the dark sky in orange, as a wind swept in from beyond the eastern hills. "I have searched far for tracks over the Dagorlad and walked in sight of the Black Gate, though there I found nothing to follow. At last I felt despair, defeated by the craftiness of Gollum, and put my last hope and effort into searching here within Emyn Muil before turning back. Finally, it would seem, that some luck was upon me – indeed I found a clear trail to follow. Though what I found was not what I had expected."

Heat came to her chilled cheeks.

"Why did you not tell me this sooner?" She ventured to ask. "How I wished to have known before."

"If you had known, would your decision have been different? Would you not then have disregarded my orders? Rather stayed at home, finished your training as I had instructed? No, I think not. I did not tell you all this before, for it is not a burden of worry you should carry. Your desire to join me would not have lessened, nor been easier to resist, if I had spoken sooner," Aragorn said. "It was best to tell you nothing."

She ducked her head, knowing well there was nothing but truth in his words.

"You will continue the hunt," Rell mumbled as understanding dawned on her, drawing her knees closer as her gaze was diverted. It was not a question, for she knew well her uncle would not return to the Angle with her. Not now. Not when he had finally sighted this malicious thing; so close he was, yet it would be no small feat to capture Gollum within the Emyn Muil. Least of all with her and her injuries. "And all I have become to you is a burden."

Aragorn shifted and came to sit by her side. His larger hand grasped her shoulder, a weight of reassurance and comfort, and he shook her lightly. "Never that," he said. "Never will you be a burden to me." A smile stole over his lips as he retracted his arm, brushing hair away from her face before it came to rest by his side once more. "Though, admittedly, you can often be a great _worry_ for me."

Rell gave him a brief, half-humoured look, but then the pair of Rangers fell silent; gazing eastward from their spot to the high peaks of the Emyn Muil, where now the first glowing touches fell upon the rocks. Day approached. There had been no rest for them throughout the night, and she could feel a drowsiness linger in the back of her mind. Her eyes were heavy, but her wounds had been tended to and there was little more reason to remain where they were currently resting. If they were to have a chance to search for Gollum once more, they were, already, at a clear disadvantage.

It had been several days since Rell's fall from the cliff. Her first encounter with the pale creature, that had been less than advantageous, felt like a blurred memory. A nightmare clouded by pain and despair. Her uncle had found tracks, still fresh on the rain-washed stones, the morning before – but going in an entirely different direction than she had last seen it. First one way and then another, back and forth as if it went in circles. Was it clever enough to cast a ruse; to trick them to take a wrong turn in the stony hills? They would have but one chance, or else have lost their only possibility of capture.

Struggling and breathing heavily Rell was assisted into the saddle by her uncle, where after he stomped out the last dull embers of fire. Grey smoke trailed into the brightening sky, and as she looked to the East, to Mordor beyond the horizon, the sun pierced the cover of clouds with reddened streaks. The morning appeared fair, much to their luck; a much welcome aid in their continued hunt.

Rell stroked Luin behind its piqued ears, leaning forward to whisper her heartfelt gratitude to the horse.

Her death would have been one of great pain and torment, if Gollum had had unhindered access to her broken body. She could not have fought off the searching, digging, hands. "When we come back home I will give you all the oats, carrots, and apples you want," Rell said. "And I shall groom you twice a day!" She kissed its forehead. Then she twisted the reins around her uninjured wrist, pulling tight until she felt properly secured, and glanced to her uncle.

Remote grey shapes moved on the wind, drifting and rolling clouds, as morning lay before them. The wind was in her face; cold, but no longer biting. Around them the black stones glimmered in the rising sun, and Aragorn stepped forward and back through the ravine. Waning shadows drew narrow and long. Luin fell into place behind him, unguided by Rell as if the horse well knew to follow their chieftain. The clacking and clicking of hooves echoed into the silence, so loud that the Ranger's feet went unheard.

Rell shifted and settled, trying to not apply unnecessary pressure to the broken arm rested in her lap. Restless and aching. Her sword had been unbuckled and hung now from a strap in the saddle; she felt naked without it, though not entirely unsafe with the straight and unwavering back of her uncle before her. She smiled. To have company once more truly was a blessing, after so long alone in the wilderness. The solitude had driven her to fear and despair, clouded her judgement until mistake after mistake had been made.

While she rode, silent in thought, it gave her plenty of time to think about her long journey. Of course, if one was to ask and Rell had to _honestly_ admit when it had all gone wrong, it would have been upon leaving the Angle – she understood that now. Too much value had been put into her own skills, believed she understood the world enough to venture out alone, and certainly she had been proven wrong. There was no need for Aragorn to chastise her foolish actions, for she had by then felt punishment in both body and mind aplenty.

She sighed and turned her gaze to the narrow path through the ravine.

It was a little farther off when Rell was taken with astonishment. Where she had gone one way and then another, only describable as rash indecision until she was truly lost, the much older Ranger stepped with surety. As if the path was as familiar as the old dust-trails of Eriador. At times he would crouch to the ground and pause for many moments, long fingers brushing against the hard, gleaming rocks or soft mud; at once knowing which way to then go. Other times, when the ground rose and fell or the path forked into many turns, he looked at the stones around him. It seemed as though they whispered to him, a language only he could understand; showing him the way.

Then he would nod to himself and quickly, face without the shadow of uncertainty, choose a way to follow. The Rangers passed through gullies, skirted deep ridges until the ground began to slope down; for several miles they went without rest, and above the sun climbed from morning to noon, yet still they went slowly but steadily downhill. There was no memory of this place in her mind, but the trust in her heart was unwavering. Whether he would find the creature, or a way out, Rell cared only little. As long as she was no longer _lost_.

Rell had at one point dozed off, slumped into the saddle, until she woke with a start as the ground came to an incline and she almost tumbled off. They had passed through a deep hollow, and the road behind was covered in shadows as she peered back; now the slope reached towards the chill, blue-grey heavens, and the Rangers followed.

Through bleary eyes she found her uncle to have fallen back, now walking by Luin's side. Then she looked about her. The gulch widened ahead, stretched into a wide tumbled flat of rock; boulders lay scattered, and amongst them grew many stunted trees. It was the first green – if they could be called as much – Rell had seen for many days. Wind-bitten and broken, gnarled they stood; bent and wretched until nothing but grey boles remained. Broken stumps and roots that had not completely surrendered their grip on the stones.

The ravine had been deep, deeper than she had first thought, for despite the long climb they were still surrounded by towering ridges and they continued ahead further still. When they came to the end of the trees, Aragorn took Luin's reins and came to a halt by the odd-twisted trunk of an old beech. With a gloved hand he motioned to the grey-brown bark, beckoning for her attention. Rell leaned forward, grip tightening on the saddle.

"Emyn Muil is a treacherous maze, which you know well," he said. "There are ways through – though few and hidden. You should always know how to return, if the path chosen proves wrong. This is one way to do so."

Small, easily overlooked unless one knew it would be there, a rune had been scratched into the tree's trunk. _So this is how_ , she thought and reached a hand forward; gently she swept a finger across the carving. It was yet another proof of her rash thoughtlessness, for in her gladness to have finally reached Emyn Muil she had entered without rhyme or reason. Certainly, _lost_ she had been! Rell shook her head. _You fool!_

Though they did not linger. Aragorn went by the slow path, bringing Luin after him, and only once in the afternoon did they halt briefly to eat and rest. Her uncle had walked far, but haste was clear upon his face. He did not plan to break for long. The creature weighed in his mind, heavy and ever-present. Rell ate a little more, bread and fruit, but declined the meat. A silvery-grey fog crept slowly over the high ridges, across the dark stones like long searching fingers. It grew colder around them.

The Rangers spoke very little, only passing comments, and both were left to their own thoughts.

Then they continued; until the chill day turned darker, and shadows crawled out of the East. The sun of Winter passed beyond the ridge, while the wind turned cold and biting against her face. It would soon be night. Exhaustion was upon Rell, and she could travel no further that day without succumbing to the strain in her mind and body. With the slow climb of the moon, a tremble rose through her; faint it was at first, in her fingers and hands, yet surely, steadily, it spread. It did not take long before her uncle noticed.

Her brow burned with a fever, as she was eased off the horse. A warm feeling rose through her chest, scalding until her throat clenched. Ashen faced, she clung to her uncle until she could feel the hard stones beneath her feet. She felt like throwing up, yet all that came were dry-heaving coughs and struggled gasps for air. No clear thoughts took shape in her mind.

Twilight was about them, and her vision turned dark.

Trembling, she stood there; cold sweat glistened and fell like silver drops from her face. Aragorn helped her lie down, despite the gnawing and cutting rocks, and the coolness numbed the burning sensation of her skin. A hand was pressed against her brow, rested there for a while, until her eyelids became too heavy to keep open. She could hear Aragorn's voice, but understood it not. There was a rustle about her and her face was carefully lifted; she felt a soft bundle of fabrics placed below her head, but then she lost the fight against her fatigue and the fever.

The night passed silently, though her fevered dreams were visited by swift-passing glimpses of the world, of memories, and the softest murmurs that wove between her thoughts. Fleeting and quick they were, as if she could reach out only to have them slip between her fingers, and Rell could not understand them. Though they seemed familiar. Around her all was black, an endless darkness with no way out, and the voice the only flicker of light that came and went. If only she could hear the words!

For a long time she chased the calling words, in what felt like an endless night.

The morning came, pale and clammy, when Rell was shook awake by her uncle's gently insisting hands. He sat, stooped over her, on the ground and watched her. His gaze showed concern; he laid his hand on her forehead, spoke with a soft voice she could barely hear, in a language she knew but did not understand. Rell allowed her eyes to close again, wishing to return to sleep, yet he would not allow it. Again, she was roused. "You must stay awake," Aragorn urged. "Cast aside the malady that claims you."

Cold water met her parched lips, and she drank with difficulty. Droplets trickled down her neck and into her hair. Still she was lying on the hard rocks, but over her white-puffed clouds drifted lazily ahead; borne upon a faint wind, painted in gold by a sun peering only just through a foggy haze. Day had come. Already it had climbed the eastern ridges of Emyn Muil. Her gaze flickered about, disoriented, and her breathing came as shallow rasps. "For how long–," she paused and swallowed, attempting to sit. "How long have I been asleep?"

Her body ached and burned.

A wet cloth was pressed against her brow, its soothing touch and the smell of _athelas_ chased off the worst, demanding caresses of fever. He would not let her rise. "You have been plagued throughout the night," he answered slowly, "I believe the worst is now over, but your long fatigue and injuries had become too much for your body." Her uncle then washed her face, coated in a sheen of sweat, and spoke again. "You need to eat something, and then rest once more."

The day was now growing, and the fog had lifted. Everything came back to her slowly, through a haze of drowsy dehydration and weakness, and she struggled to keep her eyes open. For a brief moment she did not remember much, least of all where she was or why, but it all then came back to her.

Rell shook her head, attempting to swat away his hand. "No," she said. With great exertion, she leaned against her uninjured arm and came to sit. "How can I delay you further! There is a long way to go yet, if we wish to catch Gollum before he disappears in the hills. I can ride." His gaze was stern, yet a flicker of concern crossed his face as he was about to speak against her. If she could, she would then have sprung to her feet. The younger Ranger cut off his words, stubbornness evident in her tone. "I _can_ , uncle, believe my words. In this I will not fail you."

Aragorn opened his mouth as if to speak, but he said nothing. He looked at her face, seemingly to hesitate. Fingers curling tightly into a fist, Rell made no sign; silent, patient for a decision not yet made. Over her heart crept a darkness, a fear of defeat, as if they only had this one chance to catch Gollum. To make up for the time lost tending to her injuries. What thoughts her uncle strove with, she could not tell, but instead she watched the pale sun fall upon his face.

A light kindled in his eyes at last. He sighed. "Very well," he said and stood. With a hand outstretched to her, Rell was pulled to her feet; her head spun, dizzying patches of light and dark flickered across her vision, but swiftly she steadied herself. "Though know this! If the choice comes to it – between your safety and the capture of Gollum – I will not hesitate to let him go. Even if I will have travelled the long road for naught."

Rell ducked her head, yielding to his words, and muttered a reply of understanding.

With his help she climbed the horse and left the task of packing up camp to her uncle. Instead she rummaged through the satchels for food, quickly dividing the last bread in two equal halves; she finished it with a great hunger, long before the other Ranger accepted the other half, and still she could feel her stomach rumble. She wetted her lips. They could not forage for provisions for many miles ahead, so she welcomed what little she could get. No bird nor beast made Emyn Muil or the Dead Marshes their home, and certainly the two could not live off withered snakes and worms, or the vile things in the pools.

She could not imagine fish to live there!

And certainly not any she could eat.

* * *

As the day wore on there was little change about them, at least at first. The sky was mostly clouded, leaving their path to many shadows, but when the hour passed midday the cover grew increasingly dense. The Rangers went on as icy pellets, a mixture of rain and snow, fell from the sky. They moved slowly, following attentively the winding paths and sloping hills, and it grew more and more difficult to find solid footings. If not for her uncle's marks, never would they find a way through.

Rell had her hood drawn down across her head, almost to her mouth, and she could feel the sleet trickle like rills of water down her cloak. She felt cold and tired and miserable. One hour stretched into the next, until at last the downpour was over. A windless and sullen quiet fell upon the Emyn Muil; though much welcome it was, for slowly the clouds parted, drifting apart by a breeze that did not reach them, and a dim light came. The pools glistened black, and she could finally turn her gaze up from the ground.

They followed a hollow, delved in the side of a low hill, as it came to a sudden turn. A spark of recognition came to her then. "I have walked here before!" She exclaimed. "This is the way out!" Joy stirred in her heart; her uncle had led them to the end of the rock-maze. Through the narrow ravine, where she many days before had guided a reluctant Luin, she could discern an opening before them. They came to a sharp brink, and the path cut between walls of rock into the wide uplands. Vast fens lay ahead; already the reek, foul and heavy, came to her. She craned her head, glancing back one last time to the shadowed walls of stone.

The sound of running water echoed, accompanied by the soft clip-clop of hooves, through the ravine.

Finally they came out in the open; the ridges ended abruptly, and an openness spread for many miles beyond the horizon. The small river trickled and gurgled by, feeding the stagnant pools, and Rell looked with clear dislike across the marshlands. Only few bushes grew, and there were patches of grass and reeds upon the river's sides. Aragorn led her horse forward, soon reaching the muddy bank where he then allowed Luin to drink. With some difficulty, limbs and joints screaming in agonized complaint, Rell scrambled out of the saddle and came straight to the river. The stony stream was here shallow, and it was with great delight she found a stone large enough to sit upon.

The water was icy-cold in her hand, but, as she scrubbed her bruised face, clarity came to her mind. Her wounds looked raw and red. The cold did not help against the pain she felt there; it stung, sharp needles biting to the marrow of her bones, though her treatment was without mercy. Clean she certainly would be! The silence around her was only broken by the burbling of the marshes, and the soft splashes and squelches of Luin's hooves in the mud.

Meanwhile, Aragorn surveyed their surroundings. Often he stooped, finding rumours in the earth and searched for traces of strange feet. Then he walked further, strides purposeful, and with eyes locked upon the ground. Satisfied that she would be no cleaner than this, Rell halted her ministrations and watched him quietly. Back and forth between the river and the tall ridge of Emyn Muil he stepped. The Ranger missed nothing, moving with care and diligence; no blade of grass bent, or marks in the soft mud, would go unnoticed. This, of course, went on for a while until Rell grew restless.

She wiped the water from her hands and stood, looking first with disheartened eyes to the lofty cliffs of Emyn Muil; rising like an impenetrable wall, and it barred the way West for many leagues. It had been suggested that Gollum, driven by a hunger through the Dead Marshes, had followed her through the rocky hills. The very thought made her blood run cold, and swiftly she turned her gaze away; it did not sit well with her – to be hunted so – yet also it would be their greatest fortune. The creature would not then continue his current path, to be lost within Emyn Muil where the Rangers could not follow. If luck was with them, he had turned instead to the open, easier crossings of the wetlands.

Stepping slowly from rock to rock, wet and slippery beneath her feet, Rell crossed the lazy river and reached the other bank. She cast a glance to her uncle, but then began searching the muddy ground for tracks. The reeds grew in greater numbers, swaying and singing in the cold wind; a smell of rot and foulness was in the air, uninvited, and once more Rell remembered ghostly figures in the mists.

Her hand moved to her belt, searching for the hilt of her sword, only to find it not there. Luin was moving from one tuft of withered grass to the next, grazing what little there could be found, and there, strapped to the saddle, hung a long sheathed blade. She frowned. For a while longer she searched the ground, finding nothing, yet never did the distance to the river grow; without her weapons the Ranger dared not go far.

In the end Rell crossed the river once more. "There is nothing to be found," she said. "No living thing has passed here."

Rell clicked her tongue, calling the horse over to her. Perhaps Gollum had taken another way, slipped away by paths only his wicked hands and feet could tread. Lost now to them. With her thoughts wandering, she loosened the sword and welcomed the familiarity in her hand. Heavy but balanced. Sharp, and so long unused. Twice she turned it over in her palm, tracing her thumb across the blade's edge. While she fastened it to her belt, she looked to Aragorn.

He had paused at her words, watched her with long contemplation; his eyes did not betray his thoughts, and Rell knew not if her words struck true. Behind him a light grew, a dimness suddenly turned to blazing gold, as the clouds parted. The water shimmered, as if gems were hidden beneath the surface, and the sullen brown of the land became green. The glooms of Mordor were broken. At last he spoke. "In light and darkness of our age many things shall pass away, yet not this frailty of hope that remains. Would you be released from my service – from the Dúnedain and the star upon your chest – and so return to home and hearth, though you were not asked to be here?"

"No," she said with haste, "I do not want to be parted from you. By my life and my sword, never would I turn my back on my duty. Such shame I did not ask for!"

"Then do not be so quick to despair."

Aragorn started off again. With earnest perseverance he searched; following the slow stream and the boulders strewn across the land. Abashed, Rell quickly followed after, accompanied only by the sound of hoof and foot in the quiet of the marshlands. The towering ridges of Emyn Muil stood stark against the open sky, twisting and tall teeth tearing through blue, and the wind howled through its jagged edges. Rell's feet were heavy, yet it felt good to walk once more; strength had come back to her with food and water.

While her uncle sought tracks in the ground, she kept her gaze on their surroundings. She watched ahead and back, the open plains that stretched far; the meres and fens, and the sky for all things living. Her sword was ready. Ahead the bank descended gently to a shallow shelf of stone where the river widened. Mirror-still, its depths deceptive, they had come to a great lake; it widened further, until its waters lapped against the cliff-wall of Emyn Muil. No ripple tore across the surface, no movement or sound came, yet the air was pungent with some hidden decay.

The cold chill of Winter lay upon the lake; thin sheets of ice and frost crept slowly across the still waters, and if not for the stream's constant flow, it would have frozen over completely. The ground crunched beneath her feet.

To the west the sun had begun its descent, climbing over the rim of Middle-earth; it seemed like the hills smoldered, a fading glare before a fire goes out. They could go no further in the shadow of the hills, for the water blocked their path, though neither would they venture into the marshes with the light waning. There was nothing to do but camp and wait for the approach of night.

Slowly they clambered down to the riverbank, where here the reeds grew densely and proved some shelter, down until they could go no further.

Side by side they sat, their backs against a large solitary boulder and faces turned to the open land southward. The ground was soft and damp, slowly seeping through her clothes, and a feeling of misery fell upon the Rangers. Only very little did they eat; some dried fruit, and a small slip of salted meat; keeping provisions for the evil days ahead until they could reach friendlier lands. There was a bitter and dry tang in the air, and the wind had died.

"You sleep first," Aragorn told her. "Your strength is yet to recover in full."

Rell did not argue much, for exhaustion was soon over her, though she asked to take the watch of early morning. Drawing the cloak tight around her, she lay down. It was a struggle to sleep; twisting and turning to rest her broken arm without having to wake with a sore neck or stiff limbs. The camping place was cold, damp, and uncomfortable. For a while she looked out over the still lake and further, to the barren lands; as night crawled steadily up from beyond the Mountains to the East, soon all was lost to a formless gloom of grey. Aragorn sat by her side, his blade rested over his out-stretched legs; dark-grey eyes stared ahead into the night as he hummed softly.

Her last thoughts, brooding, were those of loathing. _Such a hateful land_.

The young Ranger's sleep was heavy and without dreams. Long, undisturbed until the breaking of dawn where she was slowly shaken awake. A hooded face appeared before her, masked by shadows, and for only a moment she startled. Her uncle rose, holding out an arm to pull her up; Rell took it and felt the confusion of sleep clear as wind, dancing across the lake, washed against her. She drew the cloak tight, feeling a shiver run through her body; misty-white puffs of breath disappeared into thin air before her. "It is cold!" She said.

He hummed a reply of agreement. Then she looked about them. Only a thin trail of light could be seen in the distant horizon, turning the dark blue to a gentle glow; the marshlands were still deep shadows, endless and shapeless, and small stars glistened above. The waxing moon was but a sickle, barely discernible above the western hills. Its silver light danced over the water surface, rippling as the wind blew. Rell stamped her feet.

"Can we not risk a fire?"

Aragorn tapped his ear, gesture clear, and Rell stilled to listen.

She heard naught but the enfolding silence; broken only by the soft lulls of waves lapping against the banks and the chuckling river, but Rell closed her eyes and sharpened her hearing. At first, she felt it – the tremor of a drum-beat, _doom-doom-doom_ , running through the frosty ground – but soon she heard it. Many footsteps. Heavy they fell, clacking of iron; the faintest screech borne upon the wind, and at once she knew what made such sounds. "Orcs." She looked to her uncle, a scowl of distaste turning her eyes hard.

He nodded. "Marching for the Black Gate for hours now. They are many miles away, hastening up the road from the Grey Mountains, but certainly a sound enough reason not to start a fire."

There was no arguing against such reasoning, so Rell instead took to walking as her uncle settled. He would get only little sleep. By the breaking of dawn they would have to start again. She followed the riverbank, treading slowly and carefully for the ground was wet, and her gaze stalked the dim plains for movement. While no army of Orcs would venture into the marshlands, she still felt on edge; suddenly made aware of their closeness to Mordor. They were in a land without allies, far from the borders of friendlier places. Two against many. The thought of war was dreadful, yet also horribly anticipated.

Her fingers tapped soundlessly against the hilt of her sword, brow drawn tight in worry and thought. Her injuries an aching throb when she moved. The pale sunrise, fair but dull, seemed but a mockery; a great foreboding unease hung over them, and it was difficult to cast off the hopelessness that clung to her heart. Rell picked up a stone and rolled it around in her hand. Then she threw it far out into the center of the lake, watching it disappear with a _plop_ below the surface. Thin, shimmering rings spread, then vanished.

Rell walked a bit further along the shore, getting warmth back into her stiffened limbs, but then returned to her uncle. Luin stirred from sleep and turned deep, brown eyes to the approaching Ranger; running her uninjured hand repeatedly through the mane, she stood for many long moments and watched the ground. Her boots were caked with mud; edges frayed, and a hole was starting to appear by her left toes. Again, she listened to the quiet lands and found that the drum-beat of many marching feet had disappeared.

The host had reached the plain of Dagorlad. Now only silence was about them, while Rell settled on a protruding boulder. _More vicious beasts to join Mordor's ranks,_ she thought, drawing her knees to her chin with some difficulty. An ever-present red glare could be seen in the far horizon, East beyond the mountains there; such was the evil of Sauron, and for many years – long-forgotten by those who should have watched – he planned and built. Perhaps some, wise men and elders, had foreseen the return of darkness, but it was over-late. The Enemy would soon be ready – but would they be as well?

Sleepless, the Great Eye watched far and wide, always searching; yet the two grey-clad Rangers went unnoticed in the dull night. Rell was left with her thoughts, spinning webs of concern and pressing fear. The day of arising was drawing near. A fell wind blew, drawing with it ash and smoke; rot and everything foul. There she sat, and watched, and waited for the slow-creeping dawn in the distance; so it was that far away and almost straight ahead, a pale reddened glow grew under the black sky. The sun was fenced in by the great, dark mountains and the edge of night, almost entire swallowed by black.

Rell stood and sniffed the air. A light came in her eyes.

Hoarfrost glittered. It was impossible to look far, veiled and misty where the sun could be seen rising pale. The wetlands ran away in the flats, until they faded into a featureless and shadowy distance. Grey and brown blending with the hem of the sky. Rell quickly stepped to her uncle; he became instantly awake with her approach, and briefly she wondered if he had slept at all, yet there was no alarm in his actions when clear eyes sought hers. "It is morning," she said.

While Aragorn shook of the last remnants of sleep, Rell brought their waterskins to the lake; breaking the thin sheet of ice, she filled them with cold and fresh water as her gaze looked across the mirror-surface. Then she drank and washed her face. For a while she looked to her injuries and her bruises. Slowly, she rolled her aching shoulders; one way and then back, flexed her fingers and stretched until her joints popped. Her left arm throbbed and she sniffed the linens, smelling for infection. There was none.

The last faint stars disappeared with the breaking of dawn, and the Rangers began their journey. Following the bank back, they soon came to the mouth of the river; a heavy silence had fallen, for not even the pale sunrise could chase away the desolate gloom of the marshes. Smoke-like wisps of mist crept up from boggy pools, drifting high into the sky where light grew. There was no wind and the air was cold. While they did not speak, soon they came into familiar roles as they had back in Eriador. Her chieftain searched for tracks along the banks of the lake, continuously making a way northbound, and Rell kept her gaze high in all directions. Watching the horizon for enemies, though her bow and weapon was of little use.

They would hold the course North, following the Emyn Muil for many miles, until the hills led into the Noman-lands. The path was hard and dreary, and they made only slow progress; there were fewer mires and flooded fens, but the ground was soft with deep mud. It slowed their walk. Rougher and more barren than the Dead Marshes. Exposed, out in the open they felt, and so they walked with weary steps.

The clouds of night had passed, swift-flowing, borne upon a high wind that reached them not. The sun came out, pale and bright. As their cover melted away, the Rangers halted in a low hollow shrouded by reeds and thorny bushes. For a while Aragorn stood on the ridge, looking both eastwards and southwards. Silent and watchful. He stood with his head posed, as if he was listening, and Rell watched with quiet attention. Light fell on him; fair and grim he seemed all at once.

Suddenly, and with great haste, he ran quickly to the left.

She could only watch in a daze, thoughts disrupted by his unexpected movements. Ten long strides he took, head bowed low as he stooped over the ground; swiftly he then turned and crouched. Deep-set eyes watched the earth with great deliberation. Brushed across the surface of the mud; twirled dry, yellow straws of grass between his fingers. Quickly, Rell rose and walked carefully to him, watching her steps. Her heartbeat quickened.

With disbelief and wonder she watched his findings.

The marks of feet.


	14. The Golden Hall of Meduseld

For another day and another night, Éomer stayed at Helm's Deep. It was only very little that the inhabitants of the fortress saw of the prince and the marshal, for they found council in one another; discussing the plight of their people, and the long, hard months to come of either peace or war. The work of Saruman was their foremost concern, but also the lands to the North and East were considered with great detail. To them it felt as if they were surrounded by enemies on all sides.

Many a time out-riders came to the keep, bringing with them tidings of the world.

But now the hour of departure was upon them. He had been away long enough from Aldburg, and the Eastemnet could not go long without leadership and protection. It was some comfort that a heightened watch had been set by the Gap of Rohan, so that no hillmen could succeed in another attack. The sight of his people, those he was tasked with protecting, lying dead; hewn down in their own homes; and the dark-spiralling smoke and flames that had blotched out the clear skies, left his heart black with hatred. Men and women. _Children_. He was eager to ride once more, but loath to part from his cousin.

They had spent the morning together, side by side on the dais, giving instructions to his riders for their departure. Éothain had had much work to do in the early hours of light. One hundred of his men would not return to their awaiting families; they would remain, to strengthen the forces of Théodred, and defend the region if it came to such. When there was nothing more to be said, the prince and Éomer stood. All about them, the room fell quiet. "We shall be ready," Théodred said, so quietly only the two of them could hear his words. "Let no thoughts of despair grip your heart, cousin."

"If only our fears are unfounded. That such dark times were not before us, but rather those of gladness and peace." Éomer sighed deeply and raked a hand through his hair. "However, we are not blessed with such luck." Then they clasped hands, grips firm as their eyes met; both did they know what lay ahead, that war could not be avoided in spite of their best efforts, and it would not be long now. "May our courage and our hearts never falter."

"Be careful."

"So must you," Éomer said. "Remain vigilant."

Together they left the hall and passed through the great entrance, where the bright light of morning slanted through opened doors; stepping out into the open where they were met with Éomer's riders. Taking the steps two at a time with wide strides, the cousins approached the company. Éothain came to meet the marshal, the horse-tailed helmet tucked beneath his arm then offered forward. His horse had already been saddled, white coat glistening and restless tail flickering.

Éomer flung himself up into the saddle, quickly checking the reins until Firefoot calmed and stood perfectly still. The breath of the large animal came as puffs in the chill air.

He looked to his men; grim-faced, touched by the bitterness of hard days, yet with unwavering loyalty in their hearts. Brave they were, and it was clear in their eyes when they returned his gaze. Not one of them would ever falter, nor hesitate to ride out into battle by his command. He placed the helmet upon his head. Firefoot danced across the stones of the courtyard, and with the deep echo of many hooves, they parted. Éomer raised his hand in farewell.

The road from the Hornburg was bathed in a golden light, though the far distance was darkened by grey clouds and the wind was on his face. Behind him, as he peered back one final time, Thrihyrne stood lofty; red the peaks glowed, shimmering both gold and white for ever were they covered in snow. They turned onto the old road, cutting a way through many hills.

Along the riders went. The new morning soon blotted from the sky, and dark fell about them. Heavy grey clouds came swift on the wind, borne far and beyond the eaves of Fangorn and the Misty Mountains. Coldness was in the air. As he rode, Éomer's mind wandered, and he contemplated many things. Both large and small. It did not sit well with him to leave the matter of Saruman to his cousin, though neither could he forsake his duties eastbound. They were now beset from two fronts. _A wavering eye sees only little_ , he thought. A warning to his doubtful heart.

Far and long they rode.

Through the day and into the night, until at last they camped on the top-most crest of a wide valley. With the first rays of morning they set out again; their horses were swift-footed and rested, and many miles passed beneath the trampling of hooves. The sloped hills evened out into a long stretch of open lands and fields, with only few rocks protruding like grey teeth in the tall, swaying grass. Scattered patches of trees were but mere dots in the distance. They had left the old road almost an hour earlier, keeping the contoured ridges of the White Mountains as their guiding beacon upon their right.

Throughout the day they had ridden undisturbed, passing only few farmsteads, houses and barns, and fenced pastures. When the sun climbed to its highest point in the sky, they came to a halt beneath a large, lone-standing oak. On all sides about them the view was open. Massive and gnarled roots crawled like fingers over the earth, securing the tree trunk in its place as a last defence against the ever-changing seasons; ridges of bark, dried greyish brown from the deep-cutting winds and orange-brown leaves glowed. Its crown of leaves was an intricate web of branches until barely any light filtered through, and, instead, a cooling shade fell over the Marshal. Dismounting, Éomer sat men to the watch and out-riders were sent ahead, bringing with them words of the Éored's arrival.

A breeze swept across the field, fresh with air from the snow-covered peaks that shimmered white against a cloudless sky.

The morning had again dawned grey and damp, holding a promise of rain, but the clouds soon cleared with the passing hours, until the far horizon now claimed the last flecks of swirling white and grey. As he peered into the distance, shielding his gaze with a flat hand, he noticed a glimmer of water barely a narrow line between the green. They had gradually moved closer to the Snowbourn, slowly leading the horses through the plains, but as they now approached Edoras Éomer required a moment's peace. To think.

Throughout the journey from Helm's Deep, he had decided to turn aside from the road and pass by the court of Meduseld. A gnawing thought had long festered in his mind, whispering words of ill. The king was not well, that was clear. But if it was the crippling of body and mind from old age, or something more malicious, Éomer could not tell. He remembered his uncle, the one who had taken two orphaned children in, as if they were his own; his strength, his honour and bravery, but such memories had long since become muddled. Tarnished by what was now.

Éomer wished to see the state of the court and its king for himself.

Steeling his heart, words of their departure spread and orders were issued, as he climbed into the saddle once more. A solitary horn blew, far but soon faint upon the wind.

Éomer spurred Firefoot, and the great steed sprang forth; tufts of dirt and grass flew from trampling hooves. Before them stood the mountains, streaked with black, and rolling hills passed in a blur of green. They carved a way southeast, until the hills grew tall and many, but always ahead he kept the Snowbourn. The blue hue of the river changed colour as they approached; an almost translucent paleness near the shore, changing to a deep dark as the shallows disappeared into the depth of foaming waters.

A dirt-road – flattened by both feet, hooves and wagon wheels – followed the winding ways of the waters. Swiftly he pulled at the reins and changed his course onto the path straight south. Wings flapped, loudly and with strength, as blue-grey ducks were disturbed between the reeds. Flanked by both great and small stones, and a deep vegetation of bulrushes and willow-trees on one side, and the open grasslands on his other, Éomer could soon see a shimmer in the far distance. Where the valley between two spurs of the mountain opened among the hills, stood a tall peak at the mouth of the valley.

Solitary, the green hill of weathered rock rose above the plain.

Noon was drawing to a close when the Marshal could once more see the golden roof of Meduseld, shining far over the land. The first streaks of dark blue and blackish grey, creeping over the cloudless sky to the East, heralded the slow arrival of evening. Still, night was some time away. They followed the road, weaving along with every bend and curve of the river-shore. From their position he could see the thorny fence encircling the city and green banners fluttering upon the wind from Starkhorn.

A new haste came to their steeds.

The path led them forward, passing by the mounds of ancient kings. High and green they stood. Éomer lowered his head in solemn greeting, for always were the barrows cause for great sorrow and reverence. _Simbelmynë_ grew ever-green on their western sides. From the last hills the road sloped up the green shoulders of the rock, turned and followed the stockade hewn from old cedars the last stretch to the gate. Here, they slowed their horses and approached at a lessened pace. From beyond the fence came many sounds; the enclosing quietude was broken by voices, shouts, and laughter. The constant beat of a blacksmith's hammer upon the anvil, and the creaking and clanking of carts. A dog was barking, and a child wailed loudly.

Something ahead caught his gaze.

Where the road met the gates stood a lone figure clad in white. Éomer rose to attention, and delight and surprise stirred his heart. Behind her – for it was a woman, bright as the sun and white as snow – guards stood at a distance. Tall spears shimmered in the light of day; with green tabards pulled over chainmail, and helmets crowned with horse-tails on their heads. They raised their spears in greeting. A soft breeze plucked at her clothes, blowing loose strands of hair into her face. Her golden belt shimmered.

As Éomer jumped from the saddle, she, likewise, stepped forward to meet him.

For a moment, the sight of his sister turned all unpleasant thoughts aside, and only joy was left. Quickly, he came to stand before her and embraced the slim, graceful shoulders. "How glad I am to see you, Éowyn," he said. Laughter was in his voice. Then Éomer took a step back, looking over the woman before him; there was gladness, and love, in her grey eyes, but her face was cast in tired gloom that could not be overshadowed. The gazes of his riders were upon them, and so he said nothing of it.

"When word of your arrival reached us, I wanted to be here to meet you first," she said, holding out an arm for him to take. Her look became rueful. "How dearly I have missed you, brother. But what brings you on this path? You have not come here from Aldburg, and rather from our dearest cousin to the west?"

He gently patted her hand. "I came about this way."

Their eyes met briefly, and, despite the pursing of her lips, she gave a nod of understanding. His words were enough to still her questions. Éomer wished not to trouble her with matters of the Mark; to burden a heart so greatly troubled already. "Well." She smiled a thin smile and turned to the gates. "Glad I am of it! Come now, the King awaits your arrival."

Side by side they entered, as the dark gates were swung open before them. The guards bowed deep. Behind him the riders followed; Éothain had taken the reins of Firefoot, and a great rolling sound of hooves travelled through the ground paved with hewn stones. The people of Edoras were busy out and at work; swiftly they made way for the Marshal and his men, yet there was no hurry in the steps of Éomer. Concern brewed in his mind once more, and his walk was slow – as if it was but a leisurely stroll, that to him felt like the final walk to the gallows.

Chattering, sparkling in the pale light of early winter, a stream ran down the sloping path; its waters swift and churning as the hill wound further up. The stones turned to short flights of steps, and here he parted with his riders. His gaze turned to the high platform above. The stairs broadened onto the green terrace, and on the very top sat guards. They were seated; green shields flanked their sides, and drawn swords laid upon their knees. The doorwardens moved not, appearing statue-like if not for deep and watchful eyes that met Éomer's gaze.

Behind them was the great hall, _Meduseld_ , home of Rohan's king and court. Its roof glowed golden in the pale light.

When Éomer climbed the long stair, they rose; silently they waited until he came before them. A single guard stepped forward. "Hail, Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark. You are expected by the King." A chilling wind blew cold from the lofty peaks of the White Mountains, tall and dark shadows looming against a blue sky.

The doorwarden moved aside, and the doors, groaning on great hinges, were swung open to reveal a dark hall. Long and broad it was, warmed by a clear-burning fire upon the hearth, and smoke was in the heavy air. Whispering voices echoed between pillars richly carved and decorated with woven cloths, and Éomer saw moving shapes in the half lights; shafts of light fell through high windows facing the East, but the hall seemed almost deserted. It put Éomer on edge, for their steps felt deafening in the quiet. He looked up to the dais.

There, upon a great gilded chair, sat a man.

Familiar he was, yet also foreign; so bent with age was his uncle, where there once had been strength; high and proud was the king in his memories. White was his hair now beneath the golden circlet, and slumped he sat so that he seemed _small_. Éomer's step faltered. There was a tension and urgency in Éowyn's grip on his arm, and he went forward, past the fire until he came to stand before the steps. "Hail, Théoden son of Thengel!" He called in a clear voice and bowed deep. "King of the Mark!"

When Éomer looked up, he was met with a gaze burning with a bright light as the king gazed upon him. Unblinking. Life had not been completely snuffed out, smothered by age, and he allowed a quiet sigh of relief. At first there was only silence, and the king did not move in his seat. The old man's breathing could be heard, wheezing rasps that grated on his ears.

Éowyn stepped forward and came to kneel by their uncle's side, white skirts pooled about her, a pale touch lightly placed on his withered sword-hand. _Have their hands always been the same in size?_ "Uncle," she spoke tenderly, voice low. "My brother has arrived." The king's head turned slightly, closer at her words, and the single white diamond on his forehead shone.

Dry lips parted. " _Éomer_ –"

But as the king started to speak, movement caught the marshal's attention as a shadow shifted from the corner of the hall. Forward stepped a wizened man, slow and calculated were his movements, clothed in black; with a face pale and sullen. His heavy-lidded eyes trailed over Éomer, and disdain felt clear upon his features. Like a snake he moved. Éomer straightened and sent a quick, flittering look to his sister; so vulnerable she appeared, as if shutters had come up over her grey eyes to mask her distress. "We greet you," the man said slowly, words weighed with great care.

Éomer barely inclined his head. "Gríma." Another name was said only in his mind and heart. Then he returned his gaze to the dais. "Strange, I find it, that not the King – my _uncle_ – should greet me. I have travelled far."

"The king is not well," Gríma answered slowly. "Speak not ill of the lord of Rohan's courtesy, for I adviced him to leave your visit entirely up to others. Rest is needed, though still you request much and with little regard. What brings you here, lord Éomer, and with only _half_ of your éored?" If he had not kept his feelings forcefully in check, Éomer would have then startled; cold was his face, and his hands clenched. The advisor smiled, honeyed and dangerous, yet it only made his face more haggard. "Many days ago we received word that the Third Marshal was riding west. Yet now you have returned with only one-hundred horses."

Shifting on his feet, shoulders squared, Éomer paused in thought. Anger flickered through his mind, though he kept his eyes turned to his uncle and his hand off his sword; he would not spare another glance on the venomous worm. "Théodred needed more men," he bit out, forcefully. "I provided them."

"Yet that is not in your power to command." The man walked the three steps up onto the dais, where he came to stand by the right side of the king. Éowyn turned rigid, though kept her head high and eyes steeled. Her jaw was taut, and frail was the light that fell upon her. "While questions of battle, brutal – _crude_ , even – is best left in your most capable hands, I would think our forces are best kept at our eastern borders? _Mordor_ is the enemy."

"If you understand it, then be content and say no more," returned Éomer. "If you have no wisdom for war, perhaps it is best not to speak witlessly of it?" He then addressed the king. "My lord, Gondor holds strong still! We should not expect any attacks on the Wold. But enemies have crossed our borders from the west. Dunlendings have raided villages, and surely they are the greater threat to our peace in this moment. I have spoken with your son, with Théodred, and he agreed."

Éomer took swift steps forward, all the while drawing forth his sword, and kneeled before the dais.

The blade was rested against his leg. "I did what I believed was right to protect the people of Rohan, my lord. If it was wrong, then I gladly offer my life as atonement." Dark were the stones beneath his lowered gaze, shimmering as clouds passed high above against a fleeting sun. No words were spoken, for the wickedness of Gríma – _Wormtongue_ – could not rightfully intervene in the marshal's submission to his own king.

A shadow moved, and a weakened, feeble voice broke the silence. "Stand," said Théoden. The beat of a cane against the stones reverberated. "You have done right, sister-son."

When he looked up, he saw the figure of his uncle; bent and frail, like a tree swaying precarious in the wind – as if it could fall over at any time. White knuckles gripped a staff of twisted dark wood. With faltering steps the old man walked down from the dais and came to stand before Éomer. Behind him, Éowyn's face was thoughtful, grave, and Gríma's wretched features were hard to read. Slowly, Éomer rose. "My lord."

For a long-stretching moment, the king regarded his marshal. Slow and deliberate, but soon the clever eyes were clouded by weary age, and he turned to leave. Veiled had his gaze suddenly turned. A burden seemed heavy on his shoulders, and with the soft-repeated clacks of the cane, Éomer was left alone in the great hall with his sister. The advisor followed Théoden out; a second shadow attached to him, following wherever he walked.

Upon their departure, quickly Éomer now spoke. His voice was low and secret, naught but a soft hiss through his teeth, and none save Éowyn could hear him. "So dark it is here." He turned to face her. "Such great harm has come to Meduseld!"

There was sorrow in her grey eyes, but she did not speak. Rather, she came to stand by his side and with gentle hands led him outside. The air was fresh and cold, stark against the dull gloom behind them; a pale sun shone bright and lit the rooftops in gold. They stood by the steps, feeling the watching eyes of the doorwardens. He looked out, over many leagues upon leagues of land, until he came to the end of sight. Far it was, and further still beyond the misty haze of the horizon lay Gondor. Their allies in peace, and their first line of defence in war against a pressing enemy.

Éomer prayed his choice had been right. Both hope and fear came to his mind, in equal measures they strove and battled. Then his gaze turned closer; tents were taking shape outside the fence, white and shining cloths in the pale light, where his Éored had set up camp instead of burdening the guesthouses. Men milled about, awaiting orders of departure from the Marshal. Still, Éomer knew not for how long he would stay. Concern filled him.

As they were not alone, their conversation turned to small, unimportant matters; such matters shared between siblings that had gone long without one another. Éowyn pointed to many things in Edoras, telling stories of the daily lives of their people; of the foals in late Spring, and the harvest of the year. Chill the wind blew, yet proud and unfazed her back was as she told him of court; of new and old faces, the passing of seasons and all the work that followed. Her duties were many, though never did a word of complaint escape her.

But when she mentioned shifting powers, a hushed silence quickly fell on them. He put her arm in his, and together they descended the steps into town. "You need not tell me," Éomer said quietly, head turned to look at her. Yet his eyes fell on the great hall. It felt as if a dark, flickering shadow shifted and vanished. "I know." He could tell there was sorrow in her eyes, though only because she was his sister; a calm composure was ever her companion, as it had been for many years. "The horizon will grow light again, I promise you."

They followed the winding stream, slowly, making their way to a place undisturbed.

"Tell me," she said after a while as they walked by wooden houses, half in shadow and half in light. "Is Aldburg much the same?"

He smiled. "The hall still stands – just as it did when you last saw it. I have not yet managed to tear it apart. The wind blows cold, and the steppes are green. Though I am not much there, for my duty lies on the plains, and–," he paused briefly, pondering his next words. They came, ringing of bitterness, yet there was no such feeling in his heart. "It feels not so much like a home, for the people that made it one are not there anymore. They have not been for a very long time."

Éowyn became quiet.

Grey eyes watched his face, searching, and it was not long before he regretted his words. The deaths of their parents had hit them both hard; she had been seven when Orcs slew their father, and they had soon after witnessed their mother succumb to illness. _Heartbreak_ , he thought. _Sorrow_ had claimed her. In silence for a while they walked, now passing through the gates into the openness beyond Edoras. The guards bowed; Éomer looked briefly to the camp below the sloping hill, shadowed by the risen cliff, then he steered right and away.

They followed the descending road, until they reached the flower-dotted mounds of their ancestors. Simbelmynë glowed pale and white. Éowyn's ponderings had been much the same as his, and with a low voice she finally broke the quiet when they passed far enough from the guards. "We have our uncle – and Théodred." A sense of pride and stubbornness was in her gaze, and she drew him to a halt. Love came to her words then. "And you will _always_ have me, Éomer."

A thin smile was on his lips. "I know. Heed not my words; I am weary with concern, and clouded are my thoughts."

They had gone half a mile or so, when the pair came to a lone hill where the view was clear to all sides, and upon its crest they sat down; the grass was wet with dew, wintry blades that brushed against his skin. On one side the escarpment fell away sharply, to the other it rolled away. Éomer took a deep breath. An encroaching dread clutched his heart, but as he leaned back to stare at the empty sky, it passed; like a fleeting cloud torn apart by an unrelenting breeze. Silence was about, and he felt as if a thick veil cut them off from the world around them. Far away he saw a bird, dark against the blue horizon, circle and hover; flying at a great height, round and round, the hawk ducked quickly out of view.

The day drew on. Noon had passed, and it would not be long before night came dark and quiet over the Riddermark. The Winter days were short. Long and thin were their shadows on the grass. The sun hung low to the West, its touch soon naught but a caress over the mountain spurs. By his side, Éowyn ran a hand absently through the tall-swaying greens; twirling grass between her fingers, as the wind caught her hair. Then, suddenly, as if her mind had been made up; she spoke. "Aldburg could be a home again."

"How so?" He asked, stretching as he put his hands behind his head. From the corner of an eye he watched her.

A grin, wry and mischievous, came to her. "A wife."

He let out a clear laugh that travelled far over the plains. When his gaze met hers, the mischievious eyes of his sister were shining and Éomer sighed. Though it was not without some amusement. "Well, I could marry! You do not know, perhaps, how many young maidens covet my attention? I am much desired!" Then he sat up fully. The sun was but an arc of fire, a red glow over the ridge of the world, and a darkness came to the eastern sky. His face was drawn into deep sincerity, but his sister looked little convinced.

"You could," she said. "Yet you do not."

Éomer ran a hand across his brow. "Where should I ever find the time, sister dearest? No, you should rather look to find a match for Théodred – for the country is in need of an heir." He pulled himself to his feet and stepped to the edge of the hill; he drew his cloak about him, watching as the slanting light died. "Certainly and truly, he is not getting any younger, and his duty leaves him exposed to many dangers." Then he looked back to her. "Is there not a woman at court worthy of him?"

"There are plenty of women for the both of you," she chimed in, throwing balls of grass at him.

"I wonder." He circled around her, steps slow and deliberate, and pulled the cloak from his shoulders. As he placed it over her slim frame, he felt a bite of night-cold that touched him little; winter was drawing close, and soon the first snow would fall. He found a place on the ground once more. "I tell you this, no woman should be deserving of such a fate. Seldom I am home. What wife would wish to be alone, to handle the dealings of my hall and all its people, while the husband is away at war? To every day wait for news, be they good or bad."

From the corner of her eye, Éowyn watched him. "You would be surprised," she then said. He murmured a reply, but turned his gaze to the darkening horizon; the light was growing pale, dull and dwindling, a veil of grey covered the world about them. By the bend of the mountains, the last rays of sun cut over black peaks westward, soon unable to pierce the haze. Shadows fell. The grass grew in tussocks and flattened in waves with each gust of wind. Suddenly he felt Éowyn rest her head against his shoulder, white skirts pooling over the green grass and golden hair brushing the nape of his neck.

"I do not even remember when I last spoke with a woman," Éomer confessed thoughtfully, brow furrowed. "If I do not count you – and the housekeeper."

"Old _Gamrun_?" She laughed out loud, a joyful laughter that could likely be heard from a mile away, and he fought back a smile of his own. "Never in your entire life would she spare you a moment!" He drew his arm around her shoulders, shaking her until she could hardly breathe; then, when her mirth died down and only mischief remained in her eyes, he allowed her a pause.

For a while the siblings sat in silence under the shadow of dusk, waiting for the gloaming night to settle, when a thought struck him. "I _have_ met one," he said.

Éowyn shifted. " _Met_ one?"

Bewilderment was in her tone of voice, surprise in her eyes, yet Éomer was quick to correct himself before his sister's misunderstanding grew. "We came upon a woman in the Eastemnet, a Ranger from the north beyond the Misty Mountains." A face came to him; silver-grey eyes and dark hair, proud but not unrelenting. So young she had seemed, and for a moment he wondered what fate the Dúnedain had met in the wild. Her people that had followed, searching for her. He had guided her forward on a path that could only end in bitterness. "This is the reason I rode for Helm's Deep. Why I had to speak with Théodred."

At his words, she sat up straight and watched him attentively.

For a long time Éomer spoke, telling Éowyn of all that had happened; though he left out parts of his tale, for he could not bear to see concern grow on her face. Pale and tired, worried, she was already – he would not bring further heaviness to her heart. So he allowed her to ask, to lead the conversation with her questions, that mostly fell to the stranger from another land. There was clear interest in the woman, and Éomer was quick to indulge his sister; her weapons and her horse, how many hillmen she had slain; what her purpose had been, travelling alone in the wilderness and further still. _To the East_.

So, at length it was, that true night came about them, and small flickering stars streaked the sky. In the darkness they sat for a long time, talking as a silence crept over the plains; until Éowyn's head grew heavy against his shoulder. Her breathing became slow and quiet, and she fell fast asleep. The pale silver light of the moon made it hard to see far ahead, yet he could not miss the lines – the crease of her brow – that would not leave her thoughts even in rest. He brushed strands of hair from her face.

"Worry not, Éowyn," he whispered, "You are safe with me."

Displeasure, soon turning to fury, boiled beneath the surface of his mind. If not for his uncle's protection, the worm would have been without his head a long time ago. Always watching, waiting in the shadows; following her every move like a viper ready to strike. It was hard to miss the thinly veiled desire in Gríma's gaze. As if his fair and proud sister was some prey to be stalked. He gritted his teeth. Without proof he could do nothing. The king and the kingdom were weakening, yet all seemed blind to it; poisoned to believe all was well, though their walls were crumbling from within.

His anger became too much, and Éomer rose slowly, careful not to wake his sleeping sister. He pulled her into his arms, lifting her as her head was supported against his chest; thin, frail she appeared. A shimmer of white under the dull moon. He cautiously shifted the weight in his arms around. "If you ever need me, I will be there." Éomer drew the cloak close around her, and then, with twilight about them, he walked back to the road.

In the dark night he could see torches upon the rampart; glowing eyes and moving shadows. Spearheads flickered orange from the dancing flames, and they had surely been watched upon the hill. The dusty ground crunched beneath his boots; past the mounds enclosed by the eerie silence of the dead, and further as the road sloped upwards. Yet here it was that Éomer turned from the path, now stepping through the tall grass and away from the city. There was no sense of safety to be found within the walls of Edoras.

The night was cold and still. Golden and red in the darkness, watch-fires burned in a ring around the Éored's encampment. Sentries stood to attention at his approach, at first only shadowy shapes that glinted now and again, when the flames reflected across their armour, but soon they came clear to his eyes. Éomer gave a nod of recognition, but was quick to enter the camp where a nighttime quiet had settled; he did not need help in finding his own tent, for it was larger than the rest, standing out above the others – and a banner stood by its entrance, set in the frozen ground.

A horse, ghostly white, danced in the breeze.

As he approached, he saw that by the fire outside the tent Éothain sat waiting. The man had removed his helmet and by his side rested a green shield, yet by his belt his sword still hung; he came to stand and watch, waiting, gaze settling on the sleeping form in Éomer's arms. Neither said anything. The Marshal pushed aside the tent-flap, finding the insides darkened and left to shadows. It was hard to see much. Yet the layout was simple, and it did not take him long before he could carefully place his sister down onto the cot.

For a brief moment he marvelled; once she had been a graceless girl, ever clinging to her sword and her horses, yet now it was no longer so. Strands of hair fell across her face, and he brushed them aside before drawing a thick woolen cover over her sleeping form. They had long parted ways with fond, yet distant, memories, and only the harshness of adulthood remained. Biting like the Winter's chill. He prayed she could one day be free again, and that the joys of her youth could be found once more. "Sleep well, Éowyn."

Then he left once more.

With armour rustling, Éomer found a place by the fire. The ground was hard and cold beneath him, but the fire did much good and he sat for many long moments in silence. Over the flames an iron-wrought pot simmered, and something was bubbling inside; a smell came to him, of lamb and mushrooms, and wild herbs. For a while they sat without words under the light of the moon, too weary for much else, until finally the pair began to speak in the quiet of the camp.

It was Éothain that was first to raise his voice, and his tone was light. Concern masked. "How fares the court of Meduseld?"

Éomer drew a hand across his brow, allowing a sigh to escape him before resting his elbows on his legs.

Through the darkness of the night he could see dim torches, lining the walls of Edoras above the steep cliff, naught but flickering eyes that glowed with paleness. The city was asleep, though guards looked far and stood ever-vigilant on the ramparts. Scouting for enemies beyond their realm. _If only they, too, watched within_. "It is much the same as when we were last here," he said at first.

Almost a year ago, the king had sent urgent word for his Marshals to gather; news from Gondor had reached Edoras, and with the whispers of brewing war to the east, ever growing, it had been time to rearrange their own forces throughout the Mark. More riders had been dispatched to Aldburg, to be led by Éomer as the first defence of the Riddermark.

Already then, he had sensed a lurking danger within the great hall.

A _shadow_ , flickering and intangible. He could feel its touch on everything; reaching, searching, greedily devouring all it could until nothing was as it used to be. "Or so it would have us think," he muttered, grim-faced as he stared into the fire. His mind wandered. "I can feel it – in my heart and in my mind – that it is much _worse_ now than before. Something wicked is at large here, and its strength is only growing." Éomer found his squire's gaze across the fire. "The king is not well."

"I felt it," Éothain said. "There was a gloom in the air when we arrived. I had some of the men go about asking questions, sifting the reliable from the unreliable, and certainly a foreboding picture is painted." The large frame shifted as the rider hunched forward, removing the lid of the pot and picked two bowls from the ground. "Things are not as they should be." A large ladle, bent out of shape from once meeting an orc's axe as a makeshift weapon, spooned out stew for the both of them; hunger stirred in Éomer, and despite the burn he was quick to eat.

Around them it had truly turned to nighttime, though Éomer could see only little difference. The heavy sky above was perhaps now utterly black, a roof of dark clouds where previously there had been a grey-blurred edge to the horizon. There was no sound, save from the low-blowing breeze that plucked through the grass, and the fire crackling before him. All seemed peaceful and quiet.

There were no stars above.


End file.
